THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ANATOLE   FRANCE 


THE   CONTINENTAL    CLASSICS 


VOLUME   VI 


THE   CRIME 
OF   SYLVESTRE    BONNARD 

(MEMBER  OF  THE    INSTITUTE) 


BY 


ANATOLE    FRANCE 


THE    TRANSLATION    AND    INTRODUCTION    BY 

LAFCADIO  HEARN 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


The  Crime  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard 
Copyright,  1890,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


College 
Library 


CstEsk. 


CONTENTS 


part  1  . 
THE  LOG 


Cart  1  f  . 

THE  DAUGHTER   OF   CLEMENTINE  .....  80 

THE  FAIRY      ............  80 

THB  LITTLE  SAINT-GEORQK  111 


980268 


INTRODUCTION. 


"  LET  us  love  the  books  which  please  us,"  observes 
that  excellent  French  critic,  Jules  Lemaitre  —  "and 
cease  to  trouble  ourselves  about  classifications  and 
schools  of  literature."  This  generous  exhortation 
seems  especially  appropriate  in  the  case  of  Anatole 
France.  The  author  of  "  Le  Crime  de  Sylvestre  Bon- 
nard"  is  not  classifiable, — though  it  would  be  difficult 
to  name  any  other  modern  French  writer  by  whom 
the  finer  emotions  have  been  touched  with  equal  deli- 
cacy and  sympathetic  exquisiteness. 

If  by  Realism  we  mean  Truth,  which  alone  gives 
value  to  any  study  of  human  nature,  we  have  in  Ana- 
tole France  a  very  dainty  realist ; — if  by  Romanticism 
we  understand  that  unconscious  tendency  of  the  artist 
to  elevate  truth  itself  beyond  the  range  of  the  famil- 
iar, and  into  the  emotional  realm  of  aspiration,  then 
Anatole  France  is  betimes  a  romantic.  And,  never- 
theless, as  a  literary  figure  he  stands  alone :  neither 
by  his  distinctly  Parisian  refinement  of  method,  nor 
yet  by  any  definite  characteristic  of  style,  can  he  be 


n  INTRODUCTION. 

successfully  attached  to  any  special  group  of  writers. 
He  is  essentially  of  Paris,  indeed ; — his  literary  train- 
ing could  have  been  acquired  in  no  other  atmosphere : 
his  light  grace  of  emotional  analysis,  his  artistic  epi- 
cureanism, the  vividness  and  quickness  of  his  sensa- 
tions, are  French  as  his  name.  But  he  has  followed 
no  school-traditions;  and  the  charm  of  his  art,  at 
once  so  impersonal  and  sympathetic,  is  wholly  his 
own.  How  marvellously  well  the  author  has  suc- 
ceeded in  disguising  himself!  It  is  extremely  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  the  diary  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard 
could  have  been  written  by  a  younger  man ;  yet  the 
delightful  octogenarian  is  certainly  a  young  man's 
dream. 

M.  Anatole  France  belongs  to  a  period  of  change, — 
a  period  in  which  a  new  science  and  a  new  philosophy 
have  transfigured  the  world  of  ideas  with  unprece- 
dented suddenness.  All  the  arts  have  been  more  or 
less  influenced  by  new  modes  of  thought, — reflecting 
the  exaggerated  materialism  of  an  era  of  transition. 
The  reaction  is  now  setting  in ; — the  creative  work  of 
fine  minds  already  reveals  that  the  Art  of  the  Future 
must  be  that  which  appeals  to  the  higher  emotions 
alone.  Material  Nature  has  already  begun  to  lure 
less,  and  human  nature  to  gladden  more ; — the  knowl- 
edge of  Spiritual  Evolution  follows  luminously  upon 
our  recognition  of  Physical  Evolution ; — and  the  hori- 


INTRODUCTION.  vii 

zon  of  human  fellowship  expands  for  us  with  each 
fresh  acquisition  of  knowledge, — as  the  sky-circle  ex- 
pands to  those  who  climb  a  height.  The  works  of 
fiction  that  will  live  are  not  the  creations  of  men  who 
have  blasphemed  the  human  heart,  but  of  men  who, 
like  Anatoie  France,  have  risen  above  the  literary  ten- 
dencies of  their  generation, — never  doubting  humanity, 
and  keeping  their  pages  irreproachably  pure.  In  the 
art  of  Anatoie  France  there  is  no  sensuousness :  his 
study  is  altogether  of  the  nobler  emotions.  "What  the 
pessimistic  coarseness  of  self -called  "Naturalism"  has 
proven  itself  totally  unable  to  feel,  he  paints  for  us 
truthfully,  simply,  and  touchingly, — the  charm  of  age, 
in  all  its  gentleness,  lovableness,  and  indulgent  wis- 
dom. The  dear  old  man  who  talks  about  his  books  to 
his  cat,  who  has  remained  for  fifty  years  true  to  the 
memory  of  the  girl  he  could  not  win,  and  who,  in  spite 
of  his  world-wide  reputation  for  scholarship,  finds  him- 
self so  totally  helpless  in  all  business  matters,  and  so 
completely  at  the  mercy  of  his  own  generous  impulses, 
— may  be,  indeed,  as  the  most  detestable  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  observes,  "  a  child " ;  but  his  childishness  is 
only  the  delightful  freshness  of  a  pure  and  simple 
heart  which  could  never  become  aged.  His  artless 
surprise  at  the  malevolence  of  evil  minds,  his  toler- 
ations of  juvenile  impertinence,  his  beautiful  compre- 
hension of  the  value  of  life  and  the  sweetness  of  youth, 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

his  self-disparagements  and  delightful  compunctions 
of  conscience,  his  absolute  unselfishness  and  incapacity 
to  nourish  a  resentment,  his  fine  gentle  irony  which 
never  wounds  and  always  amuses :  these,  and  many 
other  traits,  combine  to  make  him  one  of  the  most 
intensely  living  figures  created  in  modern  French 
literature.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  imagine  him  as 
unreal ;  and,  indeed,  we  feel  to  him  as  to  some  old 
friend  unexpectedly  met  with  after  years  of  absence, 
whose  face  and  voice  are  perfectly  familiar,  but  whose 
name  will  not  be  remembered  until  he  repeats  it  him- 
self. "We  might  even  imagine  ourselves  justified  in 
doubting  the  statement  of  M.  Lemaitre  that  Anatole 
France  was  not  an  old  bachelor,  but  a  comparative- 
ly young  man,  and  a  married  man,  when  he  imag- 
ined Sylvestre  Bonnard ; — we  might,  in  short,  refuse 
to  believe  the  book  not  strictly  autobiographical, — 
but  for  the  reflection  that  its  other  personages  live 
with  the  same  vividness  for  us  as  does  the  Mem- 
ber of  the  Institute.  Therese,  the  grim  old  house- 
keeper, so  simple  and  faithful;  Madame  and  Mon- 
sieur de  Gabry,  those  delightful  friends ;  the  glorious, 
brutal,  heroic  Uncle  Victor;  the  perfectly  lovable 
Jeanne:  these  figures  are  not  less  sympathetic  in 
their  several  roles. 

But  it  is  not  because  M.  Anatole  France  has  rare 
power  to  create  original  characters,  or  to  reflect  for 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 

us  something  of  the  more  recondite  literary  life  of 
Paris,  that  his  charming  story  will  live.  It  is  because 
of  his  far  rarer  power  to  deal  with  what  is  older  than 
any  art,  and  withal  more  young,  and  incomparably 
more  precious :  the  beauty  of  what  is  beautiful  in 
human  emotion.  And  that  writer  who  touches  the 
spring  of  generous  tears  by  some  simple  story  of 
gratitude,  of  natural  kindness,  of  gentle  self-sacrifice, 
is  surely  more  entitled  to  our  love  than  the  sculptor 
who  shapes  for  us  a  dream  of  merely  animal  grace, 
or  the  painter  who  images  for  us,  however  richly,  the 
young  bloom  of  that  form  which  is  only  the  husk  of 
Being ! 

L.  H. 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 


part  I.— THE  LOG. 

December  &£,  1849. 

I  HAD  put  on  my  slippers  and  my  dressing-gown.  I 
wiped  away  a  tear  with  which  the  north  wind  blowing 
over  the  quay  had  obscured  my  vision.  A  bright  fire 
was  leaping  in  the  chimney  of  my  study.  Ice-crystals, 
shaped  like  fern-leaves,  were  sprouting  over  the  win- 
dow-panes, and  concealed  from  me  the  Seine  with  its 
bridges  and  the  Louvre  of  the  Yalois. 

I  drew  up  my  easy-chair  to  the  hearth,  and  my 
table-volante,  and  took  up  so  much  of  my  place  by  the 
fire  as  Hamilcar  deigned  to  allow  me.  Hamilcar  was 
lying  in  front  of  the  andirons,  curled  up  on  a  cushion, 
with  his  nose  between  his  paws.  His  thick  fine  fur 
rose  and  fell  with  his  regular  breathing.  At  my  com- 
ing, he  slowly  slipped  a  glance  of  his  agate  eyes  at  me 
from  between  his  half-opened  lids,  which  he  closed 
again  almost  at  once,  thinking  to  himself,  "  It  is  noth- 
ing ;  it  is  only  my  friend." 

"  Hamilcar,"  I  said  to  him,  as  I  stretched  my  legs— 
1 


2  THE  CRIME  OF  SVLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"  Hamilcar,  somnolent  Prince  of  the  City  of  Books — 
thou  guardian  nocturnal !  Like  that  Divine  Cat  who 
combated  the  impious  in  Heliopolis — in  the  night  of 
the  great  combat — thou  dost  defend  from  vile  nibblers 
those  books  which  the  old  savant  acquired  at  the  cost 
of  his  slender  savings  and  indefatigable  zeal.  Sleep, 
Hamilcar,  softly  as  a  sultana,  in  this  library,  that  shel- 
ters thy  military  virtues ;  for  verily  in  thy  person  are 
united  the  formidable  aspect  of  a  Tartar  warrior  and 
the  slumbrous  grace  of  a  woman  of  the  Orient.  Sleep, 
thou  heroic  and  voluptuous  Hamilcar,  while  awaiting 
that  moonlight  hour  in  which  the  mice  will  come  forth 
to  dance  before  the  '  Acta  Sanctorum'  of  the  learned 
Bollandists !" 

The  beginning  of  this  discourse  pleased  Hamilcar, 
who  accompanied  it  with  a  throat-sound  like  the  song 
of  a  kettle  on  the  fire.  But  as  my  voice  waxed  louder, 
Hamilcar  notified  me  by  lowering  his  ears  and  by 
wrinkling  the  striped  skin  of  his  brow  that  it  was  bad 
taste  on  my  part  to  so  declaim. 

"  This  old-book  man,"  evidently  thought  Hamilcar, 
"talks  to  no  purpose  at  all,  while  our  housekeeper 
never  utters  a  word  which  is  not  full  of  good  sense, 
full  of  signification — containing  either  the  announce- 
ment of  a  meal  or  the  promise  of  a  whipping.  One 
knows  what  she  says.  But  this  old  man  puts  together 
a  lot  of  sounds  signifying  nothing." 

So  thought  Hamilcar  to  himself.  Leaving  him  to 
his  reflections,  I  opened  a  book,  which  I  began  to  read 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BOXNARD.  3 

with  interest ;  for  it  was  a  catalogue  of  manuscripts. 
I  do  not  know  any  reading  more  easy,  more  fascinat- 
ing, more  delightful  than  that  of  a  catalogue.  The 
one  which  I  was  reading — edited  in  1824  by  Mr. 
Thompson,  librarian  to  Sir  Thomas  Raleigh — sins,  it 
is  true,  by  excess  of  brevity,  and  does  not  offer  that 
character  of  exactitude  which  the  archivists  of  my 
own  generation  were  the  first  to  introduce  into  works 
upon  diplomatics  and  paleography.  It  leaves  a  good 
deal  to  be  desired  and  to  be  divined.  This  is  perhaps 
why  I  find  myself  aware,  wThile  reading  it,  of  a  state 
of  mind  which  in  a  nature  more  imaginative  than 
mine  might  be  called  reverie.  I  had  allowed  myself 
to  drift  away  thus  gently  upon  the  current  of  my 
thoughts,  when  my  housekeeper  announced,  in  a  tone 
of  ill-humor,  that  Monsieur  Coccoz  desired  to  speak 
with  me. 

In  fact,  some  one  had  slipped  into  the  library  after 
her.  He  was  a  little  man — a  poor  little  man  of  puny 
appearance,  wearing  a  thin  jacket.  He  approached 
me  with  a  number  of  little  bows  and  smiles.  But  he 
was  very  pale,  and,  although  still  young  and  alert,  he 
looked  ill.  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  him,  of  a  wound- 
ed squirrel.  He  carried  under  his  arm  a  green  toilette, 
which  he  put  upon  a  chair ;  then  unfastening  the  four 
corners  of  the  toilette,  he  uncovered  a  heap  of  little 
yellow  books. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  then  said  to  me,  "  I  have  not  the 
honor  to  be  known  to  you.  I  am  a  book-agent,  Mon- 


4  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

sieur.  I  represent  the  leading  houses  of  the  capital, 
and  in  the  hope  that  you  will  kindly  honor  me  with 
your  confidence,  I  take  the  liberty  to  offer  you  a  few 
novelties." 

Kind  gods !  just  gods !  such  novelties  as  the  homun- 
culus  Coccoz  showed  me !  The  first  volume  that  he 
put  in  my  hand  was  "  L'Histoire  de  la  Tour  de  Nesle," 
with  the  amours  of  Marguerite  de  Bourgogne  and  the 
Captain  Buridan. 

"It  is  a  historical  book,"  he  said  to  me,  with  a 
smile — "  a  book  of  real  history." 

"  In  that  case,"  I  replied,  "  it  must  be  very  tiresome ; 
for  all  the  historical  books  which  contain  no  lies  are 
extremely  tedious.  I  write  some  authentic  ones  my- 
self ;  and  if  you  were  unlucky  enough  to  carry  a  copy 
of  any  of  them  from  door  to  door  you  would  run  the 
risk  of  keeping  it  all  your  life  in  that  green-baize  of 
yours,  without  ever  finding  even  a  cook  foolish  enough 
to  buy  it  from  you." 

"  Certainly,  Monsieur,"  the  little  man  answered,  out 
of  pure  good-nature. 

And,  all  smiling  again,  he  offered  me  the  "  Amours 
d'Heloise  et  d'Abeilard ;"  but  I  made  him  understand 
that,  at  my  age,  I  had  no  use  for  love-stories. 

Still  smiling,  he  proposed  me  the  "  Regie  des  Jeux 
de  la  Societe"  -piquet,  besigue,  e"carte,  whist,  dice, 
draughts,  and  chess. 

"  Alas !"  I  said  to  him,  "  if  you  want  to  make  me 
remember  the  rules  of  besigue,  give  me  back  my  old 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTBE  BONNARD.  5 

friend  Bignan,  with  whom  I  used  to  play  cards  every 
evening  before  the  Five  Academies  solemnly  escorted 
him  to  the  cemetery ;  or  else  bring  down  to  the  friv- 
olous level  of  human  amusements  the  grave  intelli- 
gence of  Hamilcar,  whom,  you  see  on  that  cushion, 
for  he  is  the  sole  companion  of  my  evenings." 

The  little  man's  smile  became  vague  and  uneasy. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  is  a  new  collection  of  society 
amusements — jokes  and  puns — with  a  recipe  for  chang- 
ing a  red  rose  to  a  white  rose." 

I  told  him  that  I  had  fallen  out  with  roses  for  a  long 
time,  and  that,  as  to  jokes,  I  was  satisfied  with  those 
which  I  unconsciously  permitted  myself  to  make  in 
the  course  of  my  scientific  labors. 

The  homunculus  offered  me  his  last  book,  with  his 
last  smile.  He  said  to  me : 

"Here  is  the  'Clef  de  Songes' — the  'Key  of 
Dreams' — with  the  explanation  of  any  dreams  that 
anybody  can  have ;  dreams  of  gold,  dreams  of  robbers, 
dreams  of  death,  dreams  of  falling  from  the  top  of  a 
tower.  ...  It  is  exhaustive." 

I  had  taken  hold  of  the  tongs,  and,  brandishing 
them  energetically,  I  replied  to  my  commercial  vis- 
itor: 

"  Yes,  my  friend ;  but  those  dreams  and  a  thousand 
others,  joyous  or  tragic,  are  all  summed  up  in  one — 
the  Dream  of  Life ;  is  your  little  yellow  book  able  to 
give  me  the  key  to  that  ?" 

*'  Yes,  Monsieur,"  answered  the  bomunculus ;  " 


6  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

book  is  complete,  and  is  not  dear — one  franc  twenty- 
five  centimes,  Monsieur." 

I  called  my  housekeeper — for  there  is  no  bell  in  my 
room — and  said  to  her : 

"  Therese,  Monsieur  Coccoz — whom  I  am  going  to 
ask  you  to  show  out — has  a  book  here  which  might 
interest  you:  the  'Key  of  Dreams.'  I  will  be  very 
glad  to  buy  it  for  you." 

My  housekeeper  responded : 

"Monsieur,  when  one  has  not  even  time  to  dream 
awake,  one  has  still  less  time  to  dream  asleep.  Thank 
God,  my  days  are  just  enough  for  my  work  and  my 
work  for  my  days,  and  I  am  able  to  say  every  night, 
'  Lord,  bless  Thou  the  rest  which  I  am  going  to  take.' 
I  never  dream,  either  on  my  feet  or  in  bed;  and  I 
never  mistake  my  eider-down  coverlet  for  a  devil,  like 
my  cousin  did ;  and,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  give  my 
opinion  about  it,  I  think  you  have  books  enough 
here  now.  Monsieur  has  thousands  and  thousands  of 
books,  which  simply  turn  his  head ;  and  as  for  me,  I 
have  just  two,  which  are  quite  enough  for  all  my  wants 
and  purposes — my  Catholic  prayer-book  and  my  '  Cui- 
siniere  Bourgeoise.' " 

And  with  these  words  my  housekeeper  helped  the 
little  man  to  fasten  up  his  stock  again  within  the  green 
toilette. 

The  homunculus  Coccoz  had  ceased  to  smile.  His 
relaxed  features  took  such  an  expression  of  suffering 
that  I  felt  sorry  to  have  made  fun  of  so  unhappy  a 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.  7 

man.  I  called  him  back,  and  told  him  that  I  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  copy  of  the  "  Histoire  d'Estelle 
et  de  Nemorin,"  which  he  had  among  his  books ;  that 
I  was  very  fond  of  shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  and 
that  I  would  be  quite  willing  to  purchase,  at  a  rea- 
sonable price,  the  story  of  those  two  perfect  lovers. 

"  I  will  sell  you  that  book  for  one  franc  twenty-five 
centimes,  Monsieur,"  replied  Coccoz,  whose  face  at  once 
beamed  with  joy.  "  It  is  historical ;  and  you  will  be 
pleased  with  it.  I  know  now  just  what  suits  you.  I 
see  that  you  are  a  connoisseur.  To-morrow  I  will  bring 
you  the  '  Crimes  des  Papes.'  It  is  a  good  book.  I 
will  bring  you  the  edition  d"*  amateur,  with  colored 
plates." 

I  begged  him  not  to  do  anything  of  the  sort,  and 
sent  him  away  happy.  "When  the  green  toilette  and 
the  agent  had  disappeared  in  the  shadow  of  the  corri- 
dor I  asked  my  housekeeper  whence  this  little  man 
had  dropped  upon  us. 

"  Dropped  is  the  word,"  she  answered ;  "  he  dropped 
on  us  from  the  roof,  Monsieur,  where  he  lives  with  his 
wife." 

"  You  say  he  has  a  wife,  Therese  ?  That  is  marvel- 
lous! women  are  very  strange  creatures!  This  one 
must  be  a  very  unfortunate  little  woman." 

"  I  don't  really  know  what  she  is,"  answered  The- 
rese ;  "  but  every  morning  I  see  her  trailing  a  silk 
dress  covered  with  grease-spots  over  the  stairs.  She 
makes  soft  eyes  at  people.  And,  in  the  name  of  com- 


8  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

mon-sense !  does  it  become  a  woman  that  has  been  re- 
ceived here  out  of  charity  to  make  eyes  and  to  wear 
dresses  like  that  ?  For  they  allowed  the  couple  to  oc- 
cupy the  attic  during  the  time  the  roof  was  being  re- 
paired, in  consideration  of  the  fact  that  the  husband 
is  sick  and  the  wife  in  an  interesting  condition.  The 
concierge  even  says  that  the  pains  came  on  her  this 
morning,  and  that  she  is  now  confined.  They  must 
have  been  very  badly  off  for  a  child !" 

"  Therese,"  I  replied,  "  they  had  no  need  of  a  child, 
doubtless.  But  Nature  had  decided  they  should  bring 
one  into  the  world ;  Nature  made  them  fall  into  her 
snare.  One  must  have  exceptional  prudence  to  defeat 
Nature's  schemes.  Let  us  be  sorry  for  them,  and  not 
blame  them !  As  for  silk  dresses,  there  is  no  young 
woman  who  does  not  like  them.  The  daughters  of 
Eve  adore  adornment.  You  yourself,  Therese — who 
are  so  serious  and  sensible — what  a  fuss  you  make 
when  you  have  no  white  apron  to  wait  at  table  in! 
But,  tell  me,  have  they  got  everything  necessary  in 
their  attic  ?" 

"  How  could  they  have  it,  Monsieur  ?"  my  house- 
keeper made  answer.  "  The  husband,  whom  you  have 
just  seen,  used  to  be  a  jewelry-peddler — at  least,  so 
the  concierge  tells  me — and  nobody  knows  why  he 
stopped  selling  watches.  You  have  just  seen  that  he 
is  now  selling  almanacs.  That  is  no  way  to  make  an 
honest  living,  and  I  never  will  believe  that  God's  bless- 
ing can  come  to  an  almanac-peddler.  Between  our- 


THE  CRIME  OF  ISYLVESTRE  BONNARD.  9 

selves,  the  wife  looks  to  me  for  all  the  world  like  a 
good-for-nothing — a  Marie-couche-toi-ld.  I  think  she 
would  be  just  as  capable  of  bringing  up  a  child  as  I 
would  be  of  playing  the  guitar.  Nobody  seems  to 
know  where  they  came  from;  but  I  am  sure  they 
must  have  come  by  Misery's  coach  from  the  country 
of  Sans-souci. 

"  Wherever  they  have  come  from,  Therese,  they  are 
unfortunate ;  and  their  attic  is  cold." 

"  Pardi  ! — the  roof  is  broken  in  several  places,  and 
the  rain  comes  in  by  streams.  They  have  neither 
furniture  nor  clothing.  I  don't  think  cabinet-mak- 
ers and  weavers  work  much  for  Christians  of  that 
sect !" 

"That  is  very  sad,  Therese;  a  Christian  woman 
much  less  well  provided  for  than  this  pagan,  Hamil- 
car  here ! — what  does  she  have  to  say  ?" 

"  Monsieur,  I  never  speak  to  those  people ;  I  don't 
know  what  she  says  or  what  she  sings.  But  she  sings 
all  day  long ;  I  hear  her  from  the  stairway  whenever 
I  am  going  out  or  coming  in." 

"  Well !  the  heir  of  the  Coccoz  family  will  be  able 
to  say,  like  the  Egg  in  the  village  riddle :  ' Ma  mere 
me  fit  en  chantcmtS  *  The  like  happened  in  the  case  of 
Henry  IY.  When  Jeanne  d'Albret  felt  herself  about 
to  be  confined  she  began  to  sing  an  old  Bearnaise 
canticle : 

*  "  My  mother  sang  when  she  brought  me  into  the  world." 


10          THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"'Notre-Dame  du  bout  du  pent, 
Venez  a  mon  aide  en  cette  heure! 
Priez  le  Dieu  du  ciel 
Qu'il  me  dglivre  vite, 
Qu'il  me  donne  un 


"  It  is  certainly  unreasonable  to  bring  little  unfortu- 
nates into  the  world.  But  the  thing  is  done  every 
day,  my  dear  Therese,  and  all  the  philosophers  on  earth 
will  never  be  able  to  reform  the  silly  custom.  Madame 
Coccoz  has  followed  it,  and  she  sings.  That  is  credit- 
able, at  all  events  !  But,  tell  me,  Therese,  have  you 
not  put  on  the  soup  to  boil  to-day  ?" 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  ;  and  it  is  time  for  me  to  go  and 
skim  it." 

"  Good  !  but  don't  forget,  Therese,  to  take  a  good 
bowl  of  soup  out  of  the  pot  and  carry  it  to  Madame 
Coccoz,  our  Attic  neighbor." 

My  housekeeper  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the 
room  when  I  added,  just  in  time  : 

"  Therese,  before  you  do  anything  else,  please  call 
your  friend  the  porter,  and  tell  him  to  take  a  good  bun- 
dle of  wood  out  of  our  stock  and  carry  it  up  to  the  attic 
of  those  Coccoz  folks.  See,  above  all,  that  he  puts  a 
first-class  log  in  the  lot—  a  real  Christmas  log.  As  for 
the  homunculus,  if  he  comes  back  again,  do  not  allow 
either  himself  or  any  of  his  yellow  books  to  come  in 

here." 

Having  taken  all  these  little  precautions  with  the 
refined  egotism  of  an  old  bachelor,  I  returned  to  my 
catalogue  again. 


THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVE8TRE  BONNARD.  \\ 

"With  what  surprise,  with  what  emotion,  with  what 
anxiety  did  I  therein  discover  the  following  mention, 
which  I  cannot  even  now  copy  without  feeling  my 
hand  tremble: 

" LA  LEGENDS D OREE DE  JACQ UES  DE  GENES  (Jacques 
de  Voragine); — tradud ion  franfaise^  petit  in-4:. 

"This  MS.  of  the  fourteenth  century  contains,  besides  the  tolerably 
complete  translation  of  the  celebrated  work  of  Jacques  de  Voragine, 
1.  The  Legends  of  Saints  Ferre"ol,  Ferrntion,  Germain,  Vincent,  and 
Droctoveus;  2.  A  poem  On  the  Miraculous  Burial  of  Monsieur  Saint-  Ger- 
main of  Auxerre.  This  translation,  as  well  as  the  legends  and  the  poem, 
are  due  to  the  Clerk  Alexander. 

"This  MS.  is  written  upon  vellum.  It  contains  a  great  number  of 
illuminated  letters,  and  two  finely  executed  miniatures,  in  a  rather  im- 
perfect state  of  conservation:  —  one  represents  the  Purification  of  the 
Virgin,  and  the  other  the  Coronation  of  Proserpine." 

"What  a  discovery !  Perspiration  moistened  my 
forehead,  and  a  veil  seemed  to  come  before  my  eyes. 
I  trembled;  I  flushed;  and,  without  being  able  to 
speak,  I  felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  cry  out  at  the  top 
of  my  voice. 

"What  a  treasure!  For  more  than  forty  years  I 
had  been  making  a  special  study  of  the  history  of 
Christian  Gaul,  and  particularly  of  that  glorious  Ab- 
bey of  Saint-Germain-des-Pres,  whence  issued  forth 
those  King-Monks  who  founded  our  national  dynasty. 
Now,  despite  the  culpable  insufficiency  of  the  descrip- 
tion given,  it  was  evident  to  me  that  the  MS.  of  the 
Clerk  Alexander  must  have  come  from  the  great  Ab- 
bey. Everything  proved  this  fact.  All  the  legends 
added  by  the  translator  related  to  the  pious  foundation 


12  TEE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONN  AMD. 

of  the  Abbey  by  King  Childebert.  Then  the  legenu 
of  Saint-Droctoveus  was  particularly  significant ;  be- 
ing the  legend  of  the  first  abbot  of  my  dear  Abbey. 
The  poem  in  French  verse  on  the  burial  of  Saint- 
Germain  led  me  actually  into  the  nave  of  that  vener- 
able basilica  which  was  the  umbilicus  of  Christian 
Gaul. 

The  "  Golden  Legend "  is  in  itself  a  vast  and  gra- 
cious work.  Jacques  de  Voragine,  Definitor  of  the 
Order  of  Saint-Dominic,  and  Archbishop  of  Genes, 
collected  in  the  thirteenth  century  the  various  legends 
of  Catholic  saints,  and  formed  so  rich  a  compilation 
that  from  all  the  monasteries  and  castles  of  the  time 
there  arose  the  cry :  "  This  is  the  *  Golden  Legend.' " 
The  "  Legende  Doree  "  was  especially  opulent  in  Koman 
hagiography.  Edited  by  an  Italian  monk,  it  reveals 
its  best  merits  in  the  treatment  of  matters  relating  to 
the  terrestrial  domains  of  Saint  Peter.  Voragine  can 
only  perceive  the  greater  saints  of  the  Occident  as 
through  a  cold  mist.  For  this  reason  the  Aquitanian 
and  Saxon  translators  of  the  good  legend-writer  were 
careful  to  add  to  his  recital  the  lives  of  their  own 
national  saints. 

I  have  read  and  collated  a  great  many  manuscripts 
of  the  "  Golden  Legend."  I  know  all  those  described 
by  my  learned  colleague,  M.  Paulin  Paris,  in  his  hand- 
some catalogue  of  the  MSS.  of  the  Bibliotheque  du 
Koi.  There  were  two  among  them  which  especially 
drew  my  attention.  One  is  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLIESTRE  BONNARD.  13 

tury,  and  contains  a  translation  of  Jean  Belet;  the 
other,  younger  by  a  century,  includes  the  version  of 
Jacques  Yignay.  Both  come  from  the  Colbert  collec- 
tion, and  were  placed  on  the  shelves  of  that  glorious 
Colbertine  library  by  the  Librarian  Baluze — whose 
name  I  can  never  pronounce  without  uncovering  my 
head;  for  even  in  the  century  of  the  giants  of  erudi- 
tion, Baluze  astounds  by  his  greatness.  I  know  also 
a  very  curious  codex  of  the  Bigot  collection ;  I  know 
seventy-four  printed  editions  of  the  work,  commenc- 
ing with  the  venerable  ancestor  of  all — the  Gothic  of 
Strasburg,  begun  in  1471,  and  finished  in  1475.  But 
no  one  of  those  MSS.,  no  one  of  those  editions,  con- 
tains the  legends  of  Saints  Ferreol,  Ferrution,  Ger- 
main, Vincent,  and  Droctoveus;  no  one  bears  the 
name  of  the  Clerk  Alexander ;  no  one,  in  fine,  came 
from  the  Abbey  of  Saint-Germain-des-Pres.  Com- 
pared with  the  MS.  described  by  Mr.  Thompson,  they 
are  only  as  straw  to  gold.  I  have  seen  with  my  eyes, 
I  have  touched  with  my  fingers,  an  incontrovertible 
testimony  to  the  existence  of  this  document.  But  the 
document  itself — what  has  become  of  it  ?  Sir  Thomas 
Raleigh  went  to  end  his  days  by  the  shores  of  the 
Lake  of  Como,  whither  he  carried  with  him  a  part 
of  his  literary  wealth.  "Where  did  the  books  go 
after  the  death  of  that  aristocratic  collector?  "Where 
could  the  manuscript  of  the  Clerk  Alexander  have 
gone? 
"  And  why,"  I  asked  myself,  "  why  should  I  have 


14  THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

learned  that  this  precious  book  exists,  if  I  am  never 
to  possess  it — never  even  to  see  it?  I  would  go  to 
seek  it  in  the  burning  heart  of  Africa,  or  in  the  icy 
regions  of  the  Pole  if  I  knew  it  were  there.  But 
I  do  not  know  where  it  is.  I  do  not  know  if  it  be 
guarded  in  a  triple-locked  iron  case  by  some  jealous 
bibliomaniac.  I  do  not  know  if  it  be  growing  mouldy 
in  the  attic  of  some  ignoramus.  I  shudder  at  the 
thought  that  perhaps  its  torn-out  leaves  may  have 
been  used  to  cover  the  pickle-jars  of  some  house- 
keeper." 


August  30,  1850. 

THE  heavy  heat  compelled  me  to  walk  slowly.  I 
kept  close  to  the  walls  of  the  north  quays;  and,  in 
the  lukewarm  shade,  the  shops  of  the  dealers  in  old 
books,  engravings,  and  antiquated  furniture  drew  my 
eyes  and  appealed  to  my  fancy.  Rummaging  and 
idling  among  these,  I  hastily  enjoyed  some  verses 
spiritedly  thrown  off  by  a  poet  of  the  Pleiad.  I  ex- 
amined an  elegant  Masquerade  by  Watteau.  I  felt, 
with  my  eye,  the  weight  of  a  two-handed  sword, 
a  steel  g&rgerin,  a  morion.  What  a  thick  helmet! 
What  a  ponderous  breastplate — Seigneur!  A  giant's 
garb?  No — the  carapace  of  an  insect.  The  men  of 
those  days  were  cuirassed  like  beetles;  their  weak- 
ness was  within  them.  To-day,  on  the  contrary,  our 
strength  is  interior,  and  our  armed  souls  dwell  in 
feeble  bodies. 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  SONNARD.  15 

.  .  .  Here  is  a  pastel-portrait  of  a  lady  of  the  old 
time  —  the  face,  vague  like  a  shadow,  smiles;  and  a 
hand,  gloved  with  an  openwork  mitten,  retains  upon 
her  satiny  knees  a  lap-dog,  with  a  ribbon  about  its 
neck.  That  picture  fills  me  with  a  sort  of  charming 
melancholy.  Let  those  who  have  no  half-effaced  pas- 
tels in  their  own  hearts  laugh  at  me !  Like  the  horse 
that  scents  the  stable,  I  hasten  my  pace  as  I  near 
my  lodgings.  There  it  is  —  that  great  human  hive, 
in  which  I  have  a  cell,  for  the  purpose  of  therein 
distilling  the  somewhat  acrid  honey  of  erudition.  I 
climb  the  stairs  with  slow  effort.  Only  a  few  steps 
more,  and  I  shall  be  at  my  own  door.  But  I  divine, 
rather  than  see,  a  robe  descending  with  a  sound  of 
rustling  silk.  I  stop,  and  press  myself  against  the 
balustrade  to  make  room.  The  lady  who  is  coming 
down  is  bareheaded;  she  is  young;  she  sings;  her 
eyes  and  teeth  gleam  in  the  shadow,  for  she  laughs 
with  lips  and  eyes  at  the  same  time.  She  is  cer- 
tainly a  neighbor,  and  a  very  familiar  one.  She  holds 
in  her  arms  a  pretty  child,  a  little  boy — quite  naked, 
like  the  son  of  a  goddess ;  he  has  a  medal  hung  round 
his  neck  by  a  little  silver  chain.  I  see  him  sucking 
his  thumbs  and  looking  at  me  with  those  big  eyes 
so  newly  opened  on  this  old  universe.  The  mother 
simultaneously  looks  at  me  in  a  sly,  mysterious  way ; 
she  stops — I  think  blushes  a  little — and  holds  out  the 
little  creature  to  me.  The  baby  has  a  pretty  wrinkle 
between  wrist  and  arm,  a  pretty  wrinkle  about  his 


16  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

neck,  and  all  over  him,  from  head  to  foot,  the  dain- 
tiest dimples  laugh  in  his  rosy  flesh. 

The  mamma  shows  him  to  me  with  pride. 

"Monsieur,"  she  says,  "don't  you  think  he  is  very 
pretty — my  little  boy?" 

She  takes  one  tiny  hand,  lifts  it  to  the  child's  own 
lips,  and,  drawing  out  the  darling  pink  fingers  again 
towards  me,  says, 

"  Baby,  throw  the  gentleman  a  kiss." 

Then,  folding  the  little  being  in  her  arms,  she  flees 
away  with  the  agility  of  a  cat,  and  is  lost  to  sight  in 
a  corridor  which,  judging  by  the  odor,  must  lead  to 
some  kitchen. 

I  enter  my  own  quarters. 

"  Therese,  who  can  that  young  mother  be  whom  I 
saw  bareheaded  in  the  stairway  just  now,  with  a 
pretty  little  boy?" 

And  Therese  replies  that  it  was  Madame  Coccoz. 

I  stare  up  at  the  ceiling,  as  if  trying  to  obtain  some 
further  illumination.  Therese  then  recalls  to  me  the 
little  book-peddler  who  tried  to  sell  me  almanacs  last 
year,  while  his  wife  was  being  confined. 

"  And  Coccoz  himself  ?"  I  asked. 

I  was  answered  that  I  would  never  see  him  again. 
The  poor  little  man  had  been  laid  away  under  ground, 
without  my  knowledge,  and,  indeed,  with  the  knowl- 
edge of  very  few  people,  only  a  short  time  after  the 
happy  delivery  of  Madame  Coccoz.  I  learned  that  his 
wife  had  been  able  to  console  herself ;  I  did  likewise. 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.  17 

"  But,  Therese,"  I  asked,  "  has  Madame  Coccoz  got 
everything  she  needs  in  that  attic  of  hers  ?" 

"You  would  be  a  great  dupe,  Monsieur,"  replied 
my  housekeeper,  "  if  you  should  bother  yourself  about 
that  creature.  They  gave  her  notice  to  quit  the  attic 
when  the  roof  was  repaired.  But  she  stays  there  yet — 
in  spite  of  the  proprietor,  the  agent,  the  concierge, 
and  the  bailiffs.  I  think  she  has  bewitched  every  one 
of  them.  She  will  leave  that  attic  when  she  pleases, 
Monsieur ;  but  she  is  going  to  leave  in  her  own  car- 
riage. Let  me  tell  you  that !" 

Therese  reflected  for  a  moment ;  and  then  uttered 
these  words : 

"  A  pretty  face  is  a  curse  from  Heaven." 

"  Then  I  ought  to  thank  Heaven  for  having  spared 
me  that  curse.  But  here !  put  my  hat  and  cane  away. 
I  am  going  to  amuse  myself  with  a  few  pages  of  Mo- 
re"ri.  If  I  can  trust  my  old  fox-nose,  we  are  going  to 
have  a  nicely  flavored  pullet  for  dinner.  Look  after 
that  estimable  fowl,  my  girl,  and  spare  your  neigh- 
bors, so  that  you  and  your  old  master  may  be  spared 
by  them  in  turn." 

Having  thus  spoken,  I  proceeded  to  follow  out  the 
tufted  ramifications  of  a  princely  genealogy. 


May  7,  1851. 

I  HAVE  passed  the  winter  according  to  the  ideal  of 
the  sages,  in  angello  cum,  libello ;  and  now  the  swal- 

2 


18  THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

lows  of  the  Quai  Malaquais  find  me  on  their  return 
about  as  when  they  left  me.  He  who  lives  little, 
changes  little ;  and  it  is  scarcely  living  at  all  to  use 
up  one's  days  over  old  texts. 

Yet  I  feel  myself  to-day  a  little  more  deeply  im- 
pregnated than  ever  before  with  that  vague  melan- 
choly which  life  distils.  The  economy  of  my  intel- 
ligence (I  dare  scarcely  confess  it  to  myself !)  has  re- 
mained disturbed  ever  since  that  momentous  hour  in 
which  the  existence  of  the  manuscript  of  the  Clerk 
Alexander  was  first  revealed  to  me. 

It  is  strange  that  I  should  have  lost  my  rest  simply 
on  account  of  a  few  old  sheets  of  parchment ;  but  it 
is  unquestionably  true.  The  poor  man  who  has  no 
desires  possesses  the  greatest  of  riches ;  he  possesses 
himself.  The  rich  man  who  desires  something  is  only 
a  wretched  slave.  I  am  just  such  a  slave.  The  sweet- 
est pleasures — those  of  converse  with  some  one  of  a 
delicate  and  well-balanced  mind,  or  dining  out  with  a 
friend — are  insufficient  to  enable  me  to  forget  the 
manuscript  which  I  know  that  I  want,  and  have  been 
wanting  from  the  moment  I  knew  of  its  existence. 
I  feel  the  want  of  it  by  day  and  by  night :  I  feel  the 
want  of  it  in  all  my  joys  and  pains ;  I  feel  the  want 
of  it  while  at  work  or  asleep. 

I  recall  my  desires  as  a  child.  How  well  I  can  now 
comprehend  the  intense  wishes  of  my  early  years ! 

I  can  see  once  more,  with  astonishing  vividness,  a 
certain  doll  which,  when  I  was  eight  years  old,  used 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.  19 

to  be  displayed  in  the  window  of  an  ugly  little  shop 
of  the  Hue  de  la  Seine.  I  cannot  tell  how  it  hap- 
pened that  this  doll  attracted  me.  I  was  very  proud 
of  being  a  boy ;  I  despised  little  girls ;  and  I  longed 
impatiently  for  the  day  (which,  alas !  has  come)  when 
a  strong  white  beard  should  bristle  on  my  chin.  I 
played  at  being  a  soldier ;  and,  under  the  pretext  of 
obtaining  forage  for  my  rocking-horse,  I  used  to  make 
sad  havoc  among  the  plants  my  poor  mother  used  to 
keep  on  her  window-sill.  Manly  amusements  those, 
I  should  say!  And,  nevertheless,  I  was  consumed 
with  longing  for  a  doll.  Characters  like  Hercules 
have  such  weaknesses  occasionally.  Was  the  one  I 
had  fallen  in  love  with  at  all  beautiful?  No.  I  can 
see  her  now.  She  had  a  splotch  of  vermilion  on  either 
cheek,  short  soft  arms,  horrible  wooden  hands,  and 
long  sprawling  legs.  Her  flowered  petticoat  was  fas- 
tened at  the  waist  with  two  pins.  Even  now  I  can 
see  the  black  heads  of  those  two  pins.  It  was  a  de- 
cidedly vulgar  doll — smelt  of  the  faubourg.  I  re- 
member perfectly  well  that,  even  child  as  I  was  then, 
before  I  had  put  on  my  first  pair  of  trousers,  I  was 
quite  conscious  in  my  own  way  that  this  doll  lacked 
grace  and  style — that  she  was  gross,  that  she  was 
coarse.  But  I  loved  her  in  spite  of  that ;  I  loved  her 
just  for  that ;  I  loved  her  only ;  I  wanted  her.  My 
soldiers  and  my  drums  had  become  as  nothing  in  my 
eyes.  I  ceased  to  stick  sprigs  of  heliotrope  and  ve- 
ronica into  the  mouth  of  my  rocking-horse.  That 


20          THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

doll  was  all  the  world  to  me.  I  invented  ruses  worthy 
of  a  savage  to  oblige  Virginie,  my  nurse,  to  take  me 
by  the  little  shop  in  the  Rue  de  la  Seine.  I  would 
press  my  nose  against  the  window  until  my  nurse  had 
to  take  my  arm  and  drag  me  away.  "  Monsieur  Syl- 
vestre,  it  is  late,  and  your  mamma  will  scold  you." 
Monsieur  Sylvestre  in  those  days  made  very  little  of 
either  scoldings  or  whippings.  But  his  nurse  lifted 
him  up  like  a  feather,  and  Monsieur  Sylvestre  yielded 
to  force.  In  after-years,  with  age,  he  degenerated, 
and  sometimes  yielded  to  fear.  But  at  that  time  he 
used  to  fear  nothing. 

I  was  unhappy.  An  unreasoning  but  irresistible 
shame  prevented  me  from  telling  my  mother  about 
the  object  of  my  love.  Thence  all  my  sufferings. 
For  many  days  that  doll,  incessantly  present  in  fancy, 
danced  before  my  eyes,  stared  at  me  fixedly,  opened 
her  arms  to  me,  assuming  in  my  imagination  a  sort 
of  life  which  made  her  appear  at  once  mysterious  and 
weird,  and  thereby  all  the  more  charming  and  desir- 
able. 

Finally,  one  day— a  day  I  shall  never  forget— my 
nurse  took  me  to  see  my  uncle,  Captain  Victor,  who 
had  invited  me  to  breakfast.  I  admired  my  uncle  a 
great  deal,  as  much  because  he  had  fired  the  last 
French  cartridge  at  Waterloo,  as  because  he  used  to 
make  with  his  own  hands,  at  my  mother's  table,  cer- 
tain chapons-d-Tail,  which  he  afterwards  put  into  the 
chicory-salad.  I  thought  that  was  very  fine!  My 


THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD.  21 

Uncle  Victor  also  inspired  me  with  much  respect  by 
his  f  rogged  coat,  and  still  more  by  his  way  of  turning 
the  whole  house  upside  down  from  the  moment  he 
came  into  it.  Even  now  I  cannot  tell  just  how  he 
managed  it,  but  I  can  affirm  that  whenever  my  Uncle 
Victor  found  himself  in  any  assembly  of  twenty  per- 
sons, it  was  impossible  to  see  or  to  hear  anybody  but 
him.  My  excellent  father,  I  have  reason  to  believe, 
never  shared  my  admiration  for  Uncle  Victor,  who 
used  to  sicken  him  with  his  pipe,  gave  him  great 
thumps  in  the  back  by  way  of  friendliness,  and  ac- 
cused him  of  lacking  energy.  My  mother,  though 
always  showing  a  sister's  indulgence  to  the  captain, 
sometimes  advised  him  to  fondle  the  brandy-bottle  a 
little  less  frequently.  But  I  had  no  part  either  in 
these  repugnances  or  these  reproaches,  and  Uncle 
Victor  inspired  me  with  the  purest  enthusiasm.  It 
was  therefore  with  a  feeling  of  pride  that  I  entered 
into  the  little  lodging-house  where  he  lived,  in  the 
Rue  Guenegaud.  The  entire  breakfast,  served  on  a 
small  table  close  to  the  fire-place,  consisted  of  pork- 
meats  and  confectionery. 

The  Captain  stuffed  me  with  cakes  and  pure  wine. 
He  told  me  of  numberless  injustices  to  which  he  had 
been  a  victim.  He  complained  particularly  of  the 
Bourbons;  and  as  he  neglected  to  tell  me  who  the 
Bourbons  were,  I  got  the  idea — I  can't  tell  how — that 
the  Bourbons  were  horse-dealers  established  at  "Water- 
loo. The  Captain,  who  never  interrupted  his  talk  ex- 


22          THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

cept  for  the  purpose  of  pouring  out  wine,  furthermore 
made  charges  against  a  number  of  morveux,  of  jean- 
f esses,  and  "  good-for-nothings"  whom  I  did  not  know 
anything  about,  but  whom  I  hated  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart.  At  dessert  I  thought  I  heard  the  Cap- 
tain say  my  father  was  a  man  who  could  be  led  any- 
where by  the  nose ;  but  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  un- 
derstood him.  I  had  a  buzzing  in  my  ears;  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  table  was  dancing. 

My  uncle  put  on  his  frogged  coat,  took  his  cha- 
peau  tromblon,  and  we  descended  to  the  street,  which 
seemed  to  me  singularly  changed.  It  looked  to  me  as 
if  I  had  not  been  in  it  before  for  ever  so  long  a  time. 
Nevertheless,  when  we  came  to  the  Rue  de  la  Seine, 
the  idea  of  my  doll  suddenly  returned  to  my  mind  and 
excited  me  in  an  extraordinary  way.  My  head  was 
on  fire.  I  resolved  upon  a  desperate  expedient.  We 
were  passing  before  the  window.  She  was  there,  be- 
hind the  glass  —  with  her  red  cheeks,  and  her  flow- 
ered petticoat,  and  her  long  legs. 

"  Uncle,"  I  said,  with  a  great  effort,  "  will  you  buy 
that  doll  for  me  ?" 

And  I  waited. 

"  Buy  a  doll  for  a  boy — sacrebleu  /"  cried  my  uncle, 
in  a  voice  of  thunder.  "Do  you  wish  to  dishonor 
yourself?  And  it  is  that  old  Mag  there  that  you 
want !  Well,  I  must  compliment  you,  my  young  fel- 
low !  If  you  grow  up  with  such  tastes  as  that,  you 
will  never  have  any  pleasure  in  life ;  and  your  coin- 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.          23 

rades  will  call  you  a  precious  ninny.  If  you  asked  me 
for  a  sword  or  a  gun,  my  boy,  I  would  buy  them  for 
you  with  the  last  silver  crown  of  my  pension.  But  to 
buy  a  doll  for  you — a  thousand  thunders ! — to  disgrace 
you !  Never  in  the  world !  Why,  if  I  were  ever  to 
see  you  playing  with  a  puppet  rigged  out  like  that, 
Monsieur,  my  sister's  son,  I  would  disown  you  for  my 
nephew !" 

On  hearing  these  words,  I  felt  my  heart  so  wrung 
that  nothing  but  pride — a  diabolic  pride — kept  me 
from  crying. 

My  uncle,  suddenly  calming  down,  returned  to  his 
ideas  about  the  Bourbons ;  but  I,  still  smarting  from 
the  blow  of  his  indignation,  felt  an  unspeakable  shame. 
My  resolve  was  quickly  made.  I  promised  myself 
never  to  disgrace  myself — I  firmly  and  forever  re- 
nounced that  red-cheeked  doll. 

I  felt  that  day,  for  the  first  time,  the  austere  sweet- 
ness of  sacrifice. 

Captain,  though  it  be  true  that  all  your  life  you 
swore  like  a  pagan,  smoked  like  a  beadle,  and  drank 
like  a  bell-ringer,  be  your  memory  nevertheless  hon- 
ored— not  merely  because  you  were  a  brave  soldier, 
but  also  because  you  revealed  to  your  little  nephew  in 
petticoats  the  sentiment  of  heroism !  Pride  and  lazi- 
ness had  made  you  almost  insupportable,  O  my  Uncle 
Victor ! — but  a  great  heart  used  to  beat  under  those 
frogs  upon  your  coat.  You  always  used  to  wear,  I 
now  remember,  a  rose  in  your  button-hole.  That  rose 


24          THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

which  you  allowed,  as  I  now  have  reason  to  believe, 
the  shop-girls  to  pluck  for  you — that  large,  open- 
hearted  flower,  scattering  its  petals  to  all  the  winds, 
was  the  symbol  of  your  glorious  youth.  You  despised 
neither  absinthe  nor  tobacco;  but  you  despised  life. 
Neither  delicacy  nor  common-sense  could  have  been 
learned  from  you,  Captain ;  but  you  taught  me,  even 
at  an  age  when  my  nurse  had  to  wipe  my  nose,  a  les- 
son of  honor  and  self-abnegation  that  I  will  never 
forget. 

You  have  now  been  sleeping  for  many  years  in  the 
Cemetery  of  Mont-Parnasse,  under  a  plain  slab  bear- 
ing this  epitaph : 

CI-GIT 

ARISTIDE   VICTOR    MALDENT, 

CAPITAINE   D'INFANTERIE, 
CHEVALIER    DE    LA   LEGION    D'HONNEUR. 

But  such,  Captain,  was  not  the  inscription  devised  by 
yourself  to  be  placed  above  those  old  bones  of  yours 
— knocked  about  so  long  on  fields  of  battle  and  in 
haunts  of  pleasure.  Among  your  papers  was  found 
this  proud  and  bitter  epitaph,  which,  despite  your  last 
will,  none  could  have  ventured  to  put  upon  your  tomb : 

CI-GIT 

UN   BRIGAND   DE   LA   LOIRE. 

"  Th6rese,  we  will  get  a  wreath  of  immortelles  to- 
morrow, and  lay  them  on  the  tomb  of  the  '  Brigand 
of  the  Loire.' "... 

But  Therese  is  not  here.    And  how,  indeed,  could 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.          25 

she  be  near  me,  seeing  that  I  am  at  the  rond-point  of 
the  Champs-Elysees  ?  There,  at  the  termination  of  the 
avenue,  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  which  bears  under  its 
vaults  the  names  of  Uncle  Victor's  companions-in- 
arms, opens  its  giant  gate  against  the  sky.  The  trees 
of  the  avenue  are  unfolding  to  the  sun  of  spring  their 
first  leaves,  still  all  pale  and  chilly.  Beside  me  the 
carriages  keep  rolling  by  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 
Unconsciously  I  have  wandered  into  this  fashionable 
avenue  on  my  promenade,  and  halted,  quite  stupidly, 
in  front  of  a  booth  stocked  with  gingerbread  and 
decanters  of  liquorice-water,  each  topped  by  a  lemon. 
A  miserable  little  boy,  covered  with  rags,  which  ex- 
pose his  chapped  skin,  stares  with  widely  opened  eyes 
at  those  sumptuous  sweets  which  are  not  for  such  as 
he.  With  the  shamelessness  of  innocence  he  betrays 
his  longing.  His  round,  fixed  eyes  contemplate  a  cer- 
tain gingerbread  man  of  lofty  stature.  It  is  a  general, 
and  it  looks  a  little  like  Uncle  Victor.  I  take  it,  I 
pay  for  it,  and  present  it  to  the  little  pauper,  who 
dares  not  extend  his  hand  to  receive  it — for,  by  reason 
of  precocious  experience,  he  cannot  believe  in  luck; 
he  looks  at  me,  in  the  same  way  that  certain  big  dogs 
do,  with  the  air  of  one  saying, "  You  are  cruel  to  make 
fun  of  me  like  that !" 

"  Come,  little  stupid,"  I  say  to  him,  in  that  rough 
tone  I  am  accustomed  to  use, "  take  it — take  it,  and  eat 
it ;  for  you,  happier  than  I  was  at  your  age,  you  can 
satisfy  your  tastes  without  disgracing  yourself."  .  .  . 


26          THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

And  you,  Uncle  Yictor — you,  whose  manly  figure  has 
been  recalled  to  me  by  that  gingerbread  general,  come, 
glorious  Shadow,  help  me  to  forget  my  new  doll.  We 
remain  forever  children,  and  are  always  running  after 
new  toys. 


Same  day. 

IN  the  oddest  way  that  Coccoz  family  has  become 
associated  in  my  mind  with  the  Clerk  Alexander. 

"  Therese,"  I  said,  as  I  threw  myself  into  my  easy- 
chair,  "  tell  me  if  the  little  Coccoz  is  well,  and  whether 
he  has  got  his  first  teeth  yet — and  bring  me  my  slip- 
pers." 

"  He  ought  to  have  them  by  this  time,  Monsieur," 
replied  Therese ;  "  but  I  never  saw  them.  The  very 
first  fine  day  of  spring  the  mother  disappeared  with 
the  child,  leaving  furniture  and  clothes  and  everything 
behind  her.  They  found  thirty-eight  empty  pomade- 
pots  in  the  attic.  It  exceeds  all  belief !  She  had  visit- 
ors latterly ;  and  you  may  be  quite  sure  she  is  not  now 
in  a  convent  of  nuns.  The  niece  of  the  concierge  says 
she  saw  her  driving  about  in  a  carriage  on  the  boule- 
vards. I  always  told  you  she  would  end  badly." 

"  Therese,"  I  replied,  "  that  young  woman  has  not 
ended  either  badly  or  well  as  yet.  Wait  until  the 
term  of  her  life  is  over  to  judge  her.  And  be  careful 
not  to  talk  too  much  with  that  concierge.  It  seemed 
to  me — though  I  only  saw  her  for  a  moment  on  the 
stairs — that  Madame  Coccoz  was  very  fond  of  her 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.          27 

child.  For  that  mother's-love,  at  least,  she  deserves 
credit." 

"  As  far  as  that  goes,  Monsieur,  certainly  the  little 
one  never  wanted  for  anything.  In  all  the  Quarter 
one  could  not  have  found  a  child  better  kept,  or  better 
nourished,  or  more  petted  and  coddled.  Every  God's- 
day  she  puts  a  clean  bib  on  him,  and  sings  to  him  to 
make  him  laugh  from  morning  till  night." 

"  Therese,  a  poet  has  said, '  That  child  whose  mother 
has  never  smiled  upon  him  is  worthy  neither  of  the 
table  of  the  gods  nor  of  the  couch  of  the  goddesses.' " 


July  8, 

HAVING  been  informed  that  the  Chapel  of  the  Virgin 
at  Saint- Germain -des-Pres  was  being  repaved,  I  en- 
tered the  church  with  the  hope  of  discovering  some 
old  inscriptions,  possibly  exposed  by  the  labors  of  the 
workmen.  I  was  not  disappointed.  The  architect 
kindly  showed  me  a  stone  which  he  had  just  had 
raised  up  against  the  wall.  I  knelt  down  to  look  at 
the  inscription  engraved  upon  that  stone ;  and  then, 
half  aloud,  I  read  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  apsis  these 
words,  which  made  my  heart  leap : 

"  Cy-gist  Alexandre,  moyne  de  cette  eglise,  qui  fist 
mettre  en  argent  le  menton  de  Saint-Vincent  et  de  Saint* 
Amant  et  lepie  des  Innocens ;  qui  toujours  en  son  vi- 
vantfutpreud  'homme  et  vayllant.  Priez  pour  T?a/me 
de  lui" 


28  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

I  wiped  gently  away  with  my  handkerchief  the  dust 
covering  that  burial-stone ;  I  could  have  kissed  it. 

"  It  is  he !  it  is  Alexander !"  I  cried  out ;  and  from 
the  height  of  the  vaults  the  name  fell  back  upon  me 
with  a  clang,  as  if  broken. 

The  silent  severity  of  the  beadle,  whom  I  saw  ad- 
vancing towards  me,  made  me  ashamed  of  my  enthu- 
siasm ;  and  I  fled  between  the  two  holy- water  sprink- 
lers with  which  two  rival  "rats  d'eglise"  seemed  de- 
sirous of  barring  my  way. 

At  all  events  it  was  certainly  my  own  Alexander ! 
there  could  be  no  more  doubt  possible ;  the  translator 
of  the  "  Golden  Legend,"  the  author  of  the  lives  of 
Saints  Germain,  Vincent,  Ferreol,  Ferrution,  and  Droc- 
toveus  was,  just  as  I  had  supposed,  a  monk  of  Saint- 
Germain-des-Pres.  And  what  a  good  monk,  too — pious 
and  generous!  He  had  a  silver  chin,  a  silver  head, 
and  a  silver  foot  made,  that  certain  precious  remains 
should  be  covered  with  an  incorruptible  envelope! 
But  will  I  never  be  able  to  know  his  work  ?  or  is  this 
new  discovery  only  destined  to  increase  my  regrets  ? 


August  80, 1859. 

'  I,  that  please  some,  try  all ;  both  joy  and  terror 
Of  good  and  bad;  that  make  and  unfold  error — 
Now  take  upon  me,  in  the  name  of  Time 
To  use  my  wings.    Impute  it  not  a  crime 
To  me  or  my  swift  passage,  that  I  slide 
O'er  years." 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.  29 

"Who  speaks  thus  ?  'Tis  an  old  man  whom  I  know 
too  well.  It  is  Time. 

Shakespeare,  after  having  terminated  the  third  act 
of  the  "  Winter's  Tale,"  pauses  in  order  to  leave  time 
for  little  Perdita  to  grow  up  in  wisdom  and  in  beauty ; 
and  when  he  raises  the  curtain  again  he  evokes  the 
ancient  Scythe-bearer  upon  the  stage  to  render  account 
to  the  audience  of  those  many  long  days  which  have 
weighed  down  upon  the  head  of  the  jealous  Leontes. 

Like  Shakespeare  in  his  play,  I  have  left  in  this 
diary  of  mine  a  long  interval  to  oblivion ;  and  after 
the  fashion  of  the  poet,  I  make  Time  himself  intervene 
to  explain  the  omission  of  ten  whole  years.  Ten  whole 
years,  indeed,  have  passed  since  I  wrote  one  single  line 
in  this  diary ;  and  now  that  I  take  up  the  pen  again, 
I  have  not  the  pleasure,  alas!  to  describe  a  Perdita 
"now  grown  in  grace."  Youth  and  beauty  are  the 
faithful  companions  of  poets;  but  those  charming 
phantoms  scarcely  visit  the  rest  of  us,  even  for  the 
space  of  a  season.  We  do  not  know  how  to  retain 
them  with  us.  If  the  fair  shade  of  some  Perdita  should 
ever,  through  some  inconceivable  whim,  take  a  notion 
to  traverse  my  brain,  she  would  hurt  herself  horribly 
against  heaps  of  dog-eared  parchments.  Happy  the 
poets ! — their  white  hairs  never  scare  away  the  hover- 
ing shades  of  Helens,  Francescas,  Juliets,  Julias,  and 
Dorotheas !  But  the  nose  alone  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard 
would  put  to  flight  the  whole  swarm  of  love's  heroines. 

Yet  I,  like  others,  have  felt  beauty ;  I  have  known 


30  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

that  mysterious  charm  which  Nature  has  lent  to  ani- 
mate form ;  and  the  clay  which  lives  has  given  to  me 
that  shudder  of  delight  which  makes  the  lover  and  the 
poet.  But  I  have  never  known  either  how  to  love  or 
how  to  sing.  Now,  in  my  memory — all  encumbered 
as  it  is  with  the  rubbish  of  old  texts — I  can  discern 
again,  like  a  miniature  forgotten  in  some  attic,  a  cer- 
tain bright  young  face,  with  violet  eyes.  .  .  .  "Why, 
Bonnard,  my  friend,  what  an  old  fool  you  are  becom- 
ing! Head  that  catalogue  which  a  Florentine  book- 
seller sent  you  this  very  morning.  It  is  a  catalogue 
of  Manuscripts ;  and  he  promises  you  a  description  of 
several  famous  ones,  long  preserved  by  the  collectors 
of  Italy  and  Sicily.  There  is  something  better  suited 
to  you,  something  more  in  keeping  with  your  present 
appearance. 

I  read ;  I  cry  out !  Hamilcar,  who  has  assumed 
with  the  approach  of  age  an  air  of  gravity  that  in- 
timidates me,  looks  at  me  reproachfully,  and  seems  to 
ask  me  whether  there  is  any  rest  in  this  world,  since  he 
cannot  enjoy  it  beside  me,  who  am  old  also  like  himself. 

In  the  sudden  joy  of  my  discovery,  I  need  a  confi- 
dant ;  and  it  is  to  the  sceptic  Hamilcar  that  I  address 
myself  with  all  the  effusion  of  a  happy  man. 

"No,  Hamilcar!  no,"  I  said  to  him;  "there  is  no 
rest  in  this  world,  and  the  quietude  you  long  for  is  in- 
compatible with  the  duties  of  life.  And  you  say  that 
we  are  old,  indeed !  Listen  to  what  I  read  in  this  cat- 
alogue, and  then  tell  me  whether  this  is  a  time  to  be 
reposing : 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          31 

U'LA  LEQENDE  DOREE  DE  JACQUES DE  VORAQINE ;— 
traductionfranfaise  du  quatorsieme  siecle,par  le  Clerc  Ale- 
xandre. 

" '  Superb  MS.,  ornamented  with  two  miniatures,  wonderfully  executed, 
and  in  a  perfect  state  of  conservation : — one  representing  the  Purification 
of  the  Virgin ;  the  other  the  Coronation  of  Proserpine. 

"  'At  the  termination  of  the  "L^gende  Dore"e"  are  the  Legends  of  Saints 
Ferre'ol,  Ferrution,  Germain,  and  Droctoveus  (xxviij  pp.),  and  the  Mirac- 
ulous Sepulture  of  Monsieur  Saint-Germain  d' Auxerre  (xij  pp.). 

"  *  This  rare  manuscript,  which  formed  part  of  the  collection  of  Sir 
Thomas  Raleigh,  is  now  in  the  private  study  of  Signer  Micael-Angelo 
Pollzzi,  of  Girgenti.' 

"  You  hear  that,  Hamilcar  ?  The  manuscript  of  the 
Clerk  Alexander  is  in  Sicily,  at  the  house  of  Micael- 
Angelo  Polizzi.  Heaven  grant  he  may  be  a  friend  of 
learned  men !  I  am  going  to  write  to  him !" 

"Which  I  did  forthwith.  In  my  letter  I  requested 
Signer  Polizzi  to  allow  me  to  examine  the  manuscript 
of  Clerk  Alexander,  stating  on  what  grounds  I  ven- 
tured to  consider  myself  worthy  of  so  great  a  favor. 
I  offered  at  the  same  time  to  put  at  his  disposal  several 
unpublished  texts  in  my  own  possession,  not  devoid  of 
interest.  I  begged  him  to  favor  me  with  a  prompt 
reply,  and  below  my  signature  I  wrote  down  all  my 
honorific  titles. 

"  Monsieur !  Monsieur !  where  are  you  running  like 
that  ?"  cried  Therese,  quite  alarmed,  coming  down  the 
stairs  in  pursuit  of  me,  four  steps  at  a  time,  with  my 
hat  in  her  hand. 

"  I  am  going  to  post  a  letter,  Therese." 

"  Seiqneur-Dieu !  is  that  a  way  to  run  out  in  the 
street,  bareheaded,  like  a  crazy  man  ?" 


32  THE  CRIME  OF  SJLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"  I  am  crazy,  I  know,  Therese.    But  who  is  not  ? 

Give  me  my  hat,  quick !" 

"  And  your  gloves,  Monsieur !  and  your  umbrella !" 
I  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  but  still 

heard  her  protesting  and  lamenting. 


October  10, 1859. 

I  AWAITED  Signer  Polizzi's  reply  with  ill-contained 
impatience.  I  could  not  even  remain  quiet ;  I  would 
make  sudden  nervous  gestures — open  books  and  violent- 
ly close  them  again.  One  day  I  happened  to  upset  a 
book  with  my  elbow — a  volume  of  Moreri.  Hamil- 
car,  who  was  washing  himself,  suddenly  stopped,  and 
looked  angrily  at  me,  with  his  paw  over  his  ear.  Was 
this  the  tumultuous  existence  he  must  expect  under 
my  roof?  Had  there  not  been  a  tacit  understanding 
between  us  that  we  should  live  a  peaceful  life  ?  I  had 
broken  the  covenant. 

"  My  poor  dear  comrade,"  I  made  answer, "  I  am  the 
victim  of  a  violent  passion,  which  agitates  and  masters 
me.  The  passions  are  enemies  of  peace  and  quiet,  I 
acknowledge ;  but  without  them  there  would  be  no 
arts  or  industries  in  the  world.  Everybody  would 
sleep  naked  on  a  manure-heap ;  and  you  would  not  be 
able,  Hamilcar,  to  repose  all  day  on  a  silken  cushion, 
in  the  City  of  Books." 

I  expatiated  no  further  to  Hamilcar  on  the  theory 
of  the  passions,  however,  because  my  housekeeper 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.          33 

brought  me  a  letter.    It  bore  the  postmark  of  Naples, 
and  read  as  follows : 

"MOST  ILLUSTRIOUS  SIB,— I  do  indeed  possess  that  incompar- 
able manuscript  of  the  '  Golden  Legend '  which  could  not  escape 
your  keen  observation.  All-important  reasons,  however,  forbid 
me,  imperiously,  tyrannically,  to  let  the  manuscript  go  out  of  my 
possession  for  a  single  day,  for  even  a  single  minute.  It  will  be  a 
joy  and  pride  for  me  to  have  you  examine  it  in  my  humble  home 
at  Girgenti,  which  will  be  embellished  and  illuminated  by  your 
presence.  It  is  with  the  most  anxious  expectation  of  your  visit 
that  I  presume  to  sign  myself,  Seigneur  Academician, 

"  Your  humble  and  devoted  servant, 

"  MICAEL-ANGELO  POLIZZI, 
"  Wine-merchant  ani  Archaeologist  at  Girgenti,  Sicily." 

"Well,  then !  I  will  go  to  Sicily : 

"  Extremum  hunc,  Arethusa,  mihi  concede  Idljorem" 


October  25, 1859. 

MY  resolve  had  been  taken  and  my  preparations 
made ;  it  only  remained  for  me  to  notify  my  house- 
keeper. I  must  acknowledge  it  was  a  long  time  be- 
fore I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  tell  her  I  was  going 
away.  I  feared  her  remonstrances,  her  railleries,  her 
objurgations,  her  tears.  "  She  is  a  good,  kind  girl,"  I 
said  to  myself ;  "  she  is  attached  to  me ;  she  will  want 
to  prevent  me  from  going ;  and  the  Lord  knows  that 
when  she  has  her  mind  set  upon  anything,  gestures 
and  cries  cost  her  no  effort.  In  this  instance  she  will 
be  sure  to  call  the  concierge,  the  scrubber,  the  mattress- 
3 


34          THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

maker,  and  the  seven  sons  of  the  fruit-seller ;  they  will 
all  kneel  down  in  a  circle  around  me ;  they  will  begin 
to  cry,  and  then  they  will  look  so  ugly  that  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  yield,  so  as  not  to  have  the  pain  of  seeing 
them  any  more." 

Such  were  the  awful  images,  the  sick  dreams,  which 
fear  marshalled  before  my  imagination.  Yes,  fear — 
"  fecund  Fear,"  as  the  poet  says — gave  birth  to  these 
monstrosities  in  my  brain.  For — I  may  as  well  make 
the  confession  in  these  private  pages  —  I  am  afraid 
of  my  housekeeper.  I  am  aware  that  she  knows  I  am 
weak ;  and  this  fact  alone  is  sufficient  to  dispel  all  my 
courage  in  any  contest  with  her.  Contests  are  of  fre- 
quent occurrence ;  and  I  invariably  succumb. 

But  for  all  that,  I  had  to  announce  my  departure  to 
Therese.  She  came  into  the  library  with  an  armful 
of  wood  to  make  a  little  fire — "uneflambee"  she  said. 
For  the  mornings  are  chilly.  I  watched  her  out  of 
the  corner  of  my  eye  while  she  crouched  down  at  the 
hearth,  with  her  head  in  the  opening  of  the  fire-place. 
I  do  not  know  how  I  then  found  the  courage  to  speak, 
but  I  did  so  without  much  hesitation.  I  got  up,  and, 
walking  up  and  down  the  room,  observed  in  a  careless 
tone,  with  that  swaggering  manner  characteristic  of 
cowards, 

"  By  the  way,  Therese,  I  am  going  to  Sicily." 

Having  thus  spoken,  I  awaited  the  consequence  with 
great  anxiety.  Therese  did  not  reply.  Her  head  and 
her  vast  cap  remained  buried  in  the  fire-place;  and 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.  35 

nothing  in  her  person,  which  I  closely  watched,  be- 
trayed the  least  emotion.  She  poked  some  paper 
under  the  wood,  and  blew  up  the  fire.  That  was  all ! 

Finally  I  saw  her  face  again ; — it  was  calm — so  calm 
that  it  made  me  vexed.  "  Surely,"  I  thought  to  my- 
self, "  this  old  maid  has  no  heart.  She  lets  me  go  away 
without  saying  so  much  as  'Ahf  Can  the  absence 
of  her  old  master  really  affect  her  so  little  ?" 

"  Well,  then  go,  Monsieur,"  she  answered,  at  last, 
"  only  be  back  here  by  six  o'clock !  There  is  a  dish 
for  dinner  to-day  which  will  not  wait  for  anybody." 


Naples,  Novemler  10, 1859. 
"  Co  tra  calle  vwe,  magna,  e  lame  afaccia" 
I  understand,  my  friend — for  three  centimes  I  can 
eat,  drink,  and  wash  my  face,  all  by  means  of  one  of 
those  slices  of  watermelon  you  display  there  on  a  lit- 
tle table.  But  Occidental  prejudices  would  prevent 
me  from  enjoying  that  simple  pleasure  freely  and 
frankly.  And  how  could  I  suck  a  watermelon?  I 
have  enough  to  do  merely  to  keep  on  my  feet  in  this 
crowd.  What  a  luminous,  noisy  night  in  the  Strada 
di  Porto  ?  Mountains  of  fruit  tower  up  in  the  shops, 
illuminated  by  multi-colored  lanterns.  Upon  charcoal 
furnaces  lighted  in  the  open  air  water  boils  and  steams, 
and  ragouts  are  singing  in  frying-pans.  The  smell  of 
fried  fish  and  hot  meats  tickles  my  nose  and  makes 
me  sneeze.  At  this  moment  I  find  that  my  handker- 


36  THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

chief  has  left  the  pocket  of  my  frock-coat.  I  am 
pushed,  lifted  up,  and  turned  about  in  every  direction 
by  the  gayest,  the  most  talkative,  the  most  animated, 
and  the  most  adroit  populace  possible  to  imagine ;  and 
suddenly  a  young  woman  of  the  people,  while  I  am 
admiring  her  magnificent  hair,  with  a  single  shock  of 
her  powerful  elastic  shoulder,  pushes  me  staggering 
three  paces  back  at  least,  without  injury,  into  the  arms 
of  a  maccaroni-eater,  who  receives  me  with  a  smile. 

I  am  in  Naples.  How  I  ever  managed  to  arrive 
here,  with  a  few  mutilated  and  shapeless  remains  of 
baggage,  I  cannot  tell,  because  I  am  no  longer  myself. 
I  have  been  travelling  in  a  condition  of  perpetual  fright ; 
and  I  think  that  I  must  have  looked  awhile  ago  in  this 
bright  city  like  an  owl  bewildered  by  sunshine.  To- 
night it  is  much  worse !  Wishing  to  obtain  a  glimpse 
of  popular  manners,  I  went  to  the  Strada  di  Porto, 
where  I  now  am.  All  about  me  animated  throngs  of 
people  crowd  and  press  before  the  eating-places ;  and 
I  float  like  a  waif  among  these  living  surges,  which, 
even  while  they  submerge  you,  still  caress.  For  this 
Neapolitan  people  has,  in  its  very  vivacity,  something 
indescribably  gentle  and  polite.  I  am  not  roughly 
jostled,  I  am  merely  swayed  about ;  and  I  think  that 
by  dint  of  thus  rocking  me  to  and  fro,  these  good 
folks  want  to  lull  me  asleep  on  my  feet.  I  admire, 
as  I  tread  the  lava  pavements  of  the  strada,  those  por- 
ters and  fishermen  who  move  by  me  chatting,  singing, 
smoking,  gesticulating,  quarrelling,  and  embracing  each 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          37 

other  the  next  moment  with  astonishing  versatility  of 
mood.  They  live  through  all  their  senses  at  the  same 
time;  and,  being  philosophers  without  knowing  it, 
keep  the  measure  of  their  desires  in  accordance  with 
the  brevity  of  life.  I  approach  a  much-patronized 
tavern,  and  see  inscribed  above  the  entrance  this 
quatrain  in  Neapolitan  patois: 

"  Amice,  alliegre  magnammo  e  letimmo 
NJin  che  rice  ztace  noglio  a  la  lucerna : 
CM  sa  s'a  Vautro  munno  n'ce  vedimmo  f 
Chi  sa  s'a  Vautro  munno  rice  taverna  ?"  * 

Even  such  counsels  was  Horace  wont  to  give  to  his 
friends.  You  received  them,  Posthumus ;  you  heard 
them  also,  Leuconoe,  perverse  beauty  who  wished  to 
know  the  secrets  of  the  future.  That  future  is  now 
the  past,  and  we  know  it  well.  Of  a  truth  you  were 
foolish  to  worry  yourselves  about  so  small  a  matter ; 
and  your  friend  showed  his  good  sense  when  he  told 
you  to  take  life  wisely  and  to  filter  your  Greek  wines — 
"Sapias,  vina  liques."  Even  thus  the  sight  of  a  fair 
land  under  a  spotless  sky  urges  to  the  pursuit  of  quiet 
pleasures.  But  there  are  souls  forever  harassed  by 
some  sublime  discontent ;  those  are  the  noblest.  You 
were  of  such,  Leuconoe ;  and  I,  visiting  for  the  first 
time,  in  my  declining  years,  that  city  where  your  beau- 
ty was  famed  of  old,  I  salute  with  deep  respect  your 

*  "  Friends,  let  us  merrily  eat  and  drink  as  long  as  oil  remains  in 
the  lamp.  Who  knows  if  we  shall  meet  again  in  the  other  world  ? 
Who  knows  if  in  the  other  world  there  be  a  tavern  ?" 


38          THE  CRIME  OF  87LVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

melancholy  memory.  Those  souls  of  kin  to  your  own 
who  appeared  in  the  age  of  Christianity  were  souls  of 
saints ;  and  the  "  Golden  Legend  "  is  full  of  the  miracles 
they  wrought.  Your  friend  Horace  left  a  less  noble 
posterity,  and  I  see  one  of  his  descendants  in  the  person 
of  that  tavern  poet,  who  at  this  moment  is  serving  out 
wine  in  cups  under  the  epicurean  motto  of  his  sign. 

And  yet  life  decides  in  favor  of  friend  Flaccus,  and 
his  philosophy  is  the  only  one  which  adapts  itself  to 
the  course  of  events.  There  is  a  fellow  leaning  against 
that  trellis-work  covered  with  vine-leaves,  and  eating 
an  ice,  while  watching  the  stars.  He  would  not  stoop 
even  to  pick  up  the  old  manuscript  I  am  going  to  seek 
with  so  much  trouble  and  fatigue.  And  in  truth  man 
is  made  rather  to  eat  ices  than  to  pore  over  old  texts. 

I  continued  to  wander  about  among  the  drinkers 
and  the  singers.  There  were  lovers  biting  into  beau- 
tiful fruit,  each  with  an  arm  about  the  other's  waist. 
Man  must  be  naturally  bad ;  for  all  this  strange  joy 
only  evoked  in  me  a  feeling  of  uttermost  despondency. 
That  thronging  populace  displayed  such  artless  de- 
light in  the  simple  act  of  living,  that  all  the  shynesses 
begotten  by  my  old  habits  as  an  author  awoke  and 
intensified  into  something  like  fright.  Furthermore,  I 
found  myself  much  discouraged  by  my  inability  to 
understand  a  word  of  all  the  storm  of  chatter  about 
me.  It  was  a  humiliating  experience  for  a  philologist. 
Thus  I  had  begun  to  feel  quite  sulky,  when  I  was 
startled  to  hear  some  one  just  behind  me  observe : 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.          39 

"  Dimitri,  that  old  man  is  certainly  a  Frenchman. 
He  looks  so  bewildered  that  I  really  feel  sorry  for  him. 
Shall  I  speak  to  him  ? .  .  .  He  has  such  a  good-natured 
look,  with  that  round  back  of  his — do  you  not  think 
so,  Dimitri?" 

It  was  said  in  French  by  a  woman's  voice.  For  the 
moment  it  was  disagreeable  to  hear  myself  spoken  of 
as  an  old  man.  Is  a  man  old  at  sixty-two  ?  Only  the 
other  day,  on  the  Pont  des  Arts,  my  colleague  Perrot 
d'Avrignac  complimented  me  on  my  youthful  appear- 
ance ;  and  I  should  think  him  a  better  authority  about 
one's  age  than  that  young  chatterbox  who  has  taken 
it  on  herself  to  make  remarks  about  my  back.  My 
back  is  round,  she  says.  Ah !  ah  !  I  had  some  suspi- 
cion myself  to  that  effect,  but  I  am  not  going  now  to 
believe  it  at  all,  since  it  is  the  opinion  of  a  giddy-headed 
young  woman.  Certainly  I  will  not  turn  my  head 
round  to  see  who  it  was  that  spoke ;  but  I  am  sure  it 
was  a  pretty  woman.  Why  ?  Because  she  talks  like 
a  capricious  person  and  like  a  spoiled  child.  Ugly 
women  may  be  naturally  quite  as  capricious  as  pretty 
ones ;  but  as  they  are  never  petted  and  spoiled,  and  as 
no  allowances  are  made  for  them,  they  soon  find  them- 
selves obliged  either  to  suppress  their  whims  or  to  hide 
them.  On  the  other  hand,  the  pretty  women  can  be 
just  as  fantastical  as  they  please.  My  neighbor  is 
evidently  one  of  the  latter.  .  . .  But,  after  all,  coming 
to  think  it  over,  she  really  did  nothing  worse  than  to 
express,  in  her  own  way,  a  kindly  thought  about  me, 
for  which  I  ought  to  feel  grateful. 


40  THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

These  reflections — including  the  last  and  decisive 
one — passed  through  my  mind  in  less  than  a  second ; 
and  if  I  have  taken  a  whole  minute  to  tell  them,  it  is 
only  because  I  am  a  bad  writer,  which  failing  is  char- 
acteristic of  most  philologists.  In  less  than  a  second, 
therefore,  after  the  voice  had  ceased,  I  did  turn  round, 
and  saw  a  pretty  little  woman — a  sprightly  brunette. 

"  Madame,"  I  said,  with  a  bow,  "  excuse  my  invol- 
untary indiscretion.  I  could  not  help  overhearing 
what  you  have  just  said.  You  would  like  to  be  of  ser- 
vice to  a  poor  old  man.  And  the  wish,  Madame,  has  al- 
ready been  fulfilled — the  mere  sound  of  a  French  voice 
has  given  me  such  pleasure  that  I  must  thank  you." 

I  bowed  again,  and  turned  to  go  away ;  but  my  foot 
slipped  upon  a  melon-rind,  and  I  would  certainly  have 
embraced  the  Parthenopean  soil  had  not  the  young 
lady  put  out  her  hand  and  caught  me. 

There  is  a  force  in  circumstances — even  in  the  very 
smallest  circumstances  —  against  which  resistance  is 
vain.  I  resigned  myself  to  remain  the  protege  of  the 
fair  unknown. 

"  It  is  late,"  she  said ;  "  do  you  not  wish  to  go  back 
to  your  hotel,  which  must  be  quite  close  to  ours — un- 
less it  be  the  same  one  ?" 

"  Madame,"  I  replied,  "  I  do  not  know  what  time 
it  is,  because  somebody  has  stolen  my  watch ;  but  I 
think,  as  you  say,  that  it  must  be  time  to  retire ;  and 
I  will  be  very  glad  to  regain  my  hotel  in  the  com- 
pany of  such  courteous  compatriots." 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.  41 

So  saying,  I  bowed  once  more  to  the  young  lady, 
and  also  saluted  her  companion,  a  silent  colossus  with 
a  gentle  and  melancholy  face. 

After  having  gone  a  little  way  with  them,  I  learned, 
among  other  matters,  that  my  new  acquaintances  were 
the  Prince  and  Princess  Trepof,  and  that  they  were 
making  atrip  round  the  world  for  the  purpose  of  finding 
match-boxes,  of  which  they  were  making  a  collection. 

"We  proceeded  along  a  narrow,  tortuous  vicoletto, 
lighted  only  by  a  single  lamp  burning  in  the  niche  of 
a  Madonna.  The  purity  and  transparency  of  the  air 
gave  a  celestial  softness  and  clearness  to  the  very  dark- 
ness itself ;  and  one  could  find  one's  way  without  diffi- 
culty under  such  a  limpid  night.  But  in  a  little  while 
we  began  to  pass  through  a  "venella,"  or,  in  .Nea- 
politan parlance,  a  sottoportico,  which  led  under  so 
many  archways  and  so  many  far-projecting  balconies 
that  no  gleam  of  light  from  the  sky  could  reach  us. 
My  young  guide  had  made  us  take  this  route  as  a 
short  cut,  she  assured  us ;  but  I  think  she  did  so  quite 
as  much  simply  in  order  to  show  that  she  felt  at  home 
in  Naples,  and  knew  the  city  thoroughly.  Indeed,  she 
needed  to  know  it  very  thoroughly  to  venture  by 
night  into  that  labryinth  of  subterranean  alleys  and 
flights  of  steps.  If  ever  any  man  showed  absolute  docil- 
ity in  allowing  himself  to  be  guided,  that  man  was  my- 
self. Dante  never  followed  the  steps  of  Beatrice  with 
more  confidence  than  I  felt  in  following  those  of  Prin- 
cess Trepof. 


42  TUB  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

The  lady  appeared  to  find  some  pleasure  in  my  con- 
versation, for  she  invited  me  to  take  a  carriage-drive 
with  her  on  the  morrow  to  visit  the  grotto  of  Posi- 
lippo  and  the  tomb  of  Virgil.  She  declared  she  had 
seen  me  somewhere  before  ;  but  she  could  not  remem- 
ber if  it  had  been  at  Stockholm  or  at  Canton.  In  the 
former  event  I  was  a  very  celebrated  professor  of 
geology;  in  the  latter,  a  provision-merchant  whose 
courtesy  and  kindness  had  been  much  appreciated. 
One  thing  certain  was  that  she  had  seen  my  back 
somewhere  before. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  added ;  "  we  are  continually  travel- 
ling, my  husband  and  I,  to  collect  match-boxes  and  to 
change  our  ennui  by  changing  country.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  more  reasonable  to  content  ourselves  with  a 
single  variety  of  ennui.  But  we  have  made  all  our 
preparations  and  arrangements  for  travelling :  all  our 
plans  have  been  laid  out  in  advance,  and  it  gives  us  no 
trouble,  whereas  it  would  be  very  troublesome  for  us 
to  stop  anywhere  in  particular.  I  tell  you  all  this  so 
that  you  may  not  be  surprised  if  my  recollections 
have  become  a  little  mixed  up.  But  from  the  mo- 
ment I  first  saw  you  at  a  distance  this  evening,  I  felt 
— in  fact  I  knew — that  I  had  seen  you  before.  Now 
the  question  is, '  "Where  was  it  that  I  saw  you  ?'  You 
are  not,  then,  either  the  geologist  or  the  provision- 
merchant  ?" 

"  No,  Madame,"  I  replied, "  I  am  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other ;  and  I  am  sorry  for  it — since  you  have  had 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          43 

reason  to  esteem  them.  There  is  really  nothing  about 
me  worthy  of  your  interest.  I  have  spent  all  my 
life  poring  over  books,  and  I  have  never  travelled: 
you  might  have  known  that  from  my  bewilderment, 
which  excited  your  compassion.  I  am  a  member  of 
the  Institute." 

"  You  are  a  member  of  the  Institute !  How  nice ! 
Will  you  not  write  something  for  me  in  my  album  ? 
Do  you  know  Chinese  ?  I  would  like  so  much  to  have 
you  write  something  in  Chinese  or  Persian  in  my  al- 
bum. I  will  introduce  you  to  my  friend,  Miss  Fergus- 
son,  who  travels  everywhere  to  see  all  the  famous 
people  in  the  world.  She  will  be  delighted!  .  .  . 
Dimitri,  did  you  hear  that  ? — this  gentleman  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Institute,  and  he  has  passed  all  his  life  over 
books." 

The  prince  nodded  approval. 

"Monsieur,"  I  said,  trying  to  engage  him  in  our 
conversation, "  it  is  true  that  something  can  be  learned 
from  books ;  but  a  great  deal  more  can  be  learned  by 
travelling,  and  I  regret  that  I  have  not  been  able  to 
go  round  the  world  like  you.  I  have  lived  in  the 
same  house  for  thirty  years,  and  I  scarcely  ever  go 
out." 

"  Lived  in  the  same  house  for  thirty  years !"  cried 
Madame  Trepof ;  is  it  possible  ?" 

"  Yes,  Madame,"  I  answered.  "  But  you  must  know 
the  house  is  situated  on  the  bank  of  the  Seine,  and  in 
the  very  handsomest  and  most  famous  part  of  the 


44  THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

world.  From  my  window  I  can  see  the  Tuileries  and 
the  Louvre,  the  Pont-Neuf ,  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame, 
the  turrets  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  the  spire  of 
the  Sainte-Chapelle.  All  those  stones  speak  to  me ; 
they  tell  me  stories  about  the  days  of  Saint-Louis,  of 
the  Valois,  of  Henri  IV.,  and  of  Louis  XIV.  I  under- 
stand them,  and  I  love  them  all.  It  is  only  a  very 
small  corner  of  the  world,  but  honestly,  Madame, 
where  is  there  a  more  glorious  spot  ?" 

At  this  moment  we  found  ourselves  upon  a  public 
square — a  largo  steeped  in  the  soft  glow  of  the  night. 
Madame  Trepof  looked  at  me  in  an  uneasy  manner ; 
her  lifted  eyebrows  almost  touched  the  black  curls 
about  her  forehead. 

"Where  do  you  live,  then?"  she  demanded,  brusquely. 

"  On  the  Quai  Malaquais,  Madame,  and  my  name  is 
Bonnard.  It  is  not  a  name  very  widely  known,  but  I 
am  contented  if  my  friends  do  not  forget  it." 

This  revelation,  unimportant  as  it  was,  produced  an 
extraordinary  effect  upon  Madame  Tr6pof.  She  im- 
mediately turned  her  back  upon  me  and  caught  her 
husband's  arm. 

"  Come,  Dimitri !"  she  exclaimed,  "  do  walk  a  little 
faster.  I  am  horribly  tired,  and  you  will  not  hurry 
yourself  in  the  least.  We  shall  never  get  home.  ...  As 
for  you,  monsieur,  your  way  lies  over  there !" 

She  made  a  vague  gesture  in  the  direction  of  some 
dark  vicolo,  pushed  her  husband  the  opposite  way,  and 
called  to  me,  without  even  turning  her  head, 


TEE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.          45 

"  Adieu,  Monsieur !  We  shall  not  go  to  Posilippo 
to-morrow,  nor  the  day  after,  either.  I  have  a  fright- 
ful headache !  . . .  Dimitri,  you  are  unendurable !  Will 
you  not  walk  faster  ?" 

I  remained  for  the  moment  stupefied,  vainly  trying 
to  think  what  I  could  have  done  to  offend  Madame 
Trepof.  I  had  also  lost  my  way,  and  seemed  doomed 
to  wander  about  all  night.  In  order  to  ask  my  way, 
I  would  have  to  see  somebody ;  and  it  did  not  seem 
likely  that  I  should  find  a  single  human  being  who 
could  understand  me.  In  my  despair  I  entered  a 
street  at  random — a  street,  or  rather  a  horrible  alley 
that  had  the  look  of  a  murderous  place.  It  proved  so 
in  fact,  for  I  had  not  been  two  minutes  in  it  before  I 
saw  two  men  fighting  with  knives.  They  were  attack- 
ing each  other  even  more  fiercely  with  their  tongues 
than  with  their  weapons ;  and  I  concluded  from  the 
nature  of  the  abuse  they  were  showering  upon  each 
other  that  it  was  a  love  affair.  I  prudently  made  my 
way  into  a  side  alley  while  those  two  good  fellows 
were  still  much  too  busy  with  their  own  affairs  to 
think  about  mine.  I  wandered  hopelessly  about  for 
a  while,  and  at  last  sat  down,  completely  discouraged, 
on  a  stone  bench,  inwardly  cursing  the  strange  ca- 
prices of  Madame  Trepof. 

"How  are  you,  Signor?  Are  you  back  from  San 
Carlo?  Did  you  hear  the  diva  sing?  It  is  only  at 
"Naples  you  can  hear  singing  like  hers." 

I  looked  up,  and  recognized  my  host.    I  had  seated 


46  THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

myself  with  my  back  to  the  fagade  of  my  hotel,  un- 
der the  window  of  my  own  room. 


Monte-Allegro,  November  30,  1859. 

WE  were  all  resting — myself,  my  guides,  and  their 
mules — on  the  road  from  Sciacca  to  Girgenti,  at  a 
tavern  in  the  miserable  village  of  Monte -Allegro, 
whose  inhabitants,  consumed  by  the  maP  aria,  con- 
tinually shiver  in  the  sun.  But  nevertheless  they  are 
Greeks,  and  their  gayety  triumphs  over  all  circum- 
stances. A  few  gather  about  the  tavern,  full  of  smil- 
ing curiosity.  One  good  story  would  have  sufficed, 
had  I  known  how  to  tell  it  to  them,  to  make  them 
forget  all  the  woes  of  life.  They  had  all  a  look  of 
intelligence;  and  their  women,  although  tanned  and 
faded,  wore  their  long  black  cloaks  with  much  grace. 

Before  me  I  could  see  old  ruins  whitened  by  the 
sea-wind — ruins  about  which  no  grass  ever  grows. 
The  dismal  melancholy  of  deserts  prevails  over  this 
arid  land,  whose  cracked  surface  can  barely  nourish 
a  few  shrivelled  mimosas,  cacti,  and  dwarf  palms. 
Twenty  yards  away,  along  the  course  of  a  ravine, 
stones  were  gleaming  whitely  like  a  long  line  of  scat- 
tered bones.  They  told  me  that  was  the  bed  of  a 
stream. 

I  had  been  about  fifteen  days  in  Sicily.  On  com- 
ing into  the  Bay  of  Palermo — which  opens  between 
the  two  mighty  naked  masses  of  the  Pelligrino  and 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          47 

the  Catalfano,  and  extends  inward  along  the  "  Golden 
Conch" — the  view  inspired  me  with  such  admiration 
that  I  resolved  to  travel  a  little  in  this  island,  so  en- 
nobled by  historic  memories,  and  rendered  so  beauti- 
ful by  the  outlines  of  its  hills,  which  reveal  the  prin- 
ciples of  Greek  art.  Old  pilgrim  though  I  was,  grown 
hoary  in  the  Gothic  Occident — I  dared  to  venture  upon 
that  classic  soil;  and,  securing  a  guide,  I  went  from 
Palermo  to  Trapani,  from  Trapani  to  Selinonte,  from 
Selinonte  to  Sciacca — which  I  left  this  morning  to 
go  to  Girgenti,  where  I  am  to  find  the  MS.  of  Clerk 
Alexander.  The  beautiful  things  I  have  seen  are  still 
so  vivid  in  my  mind  that  I  feel  the  task  of  writing 
them  would  be  a  useless  fatigue.  Why  spoil  my 
pleasure-trip  by  collecting  notes?  Lovers  who  love 
truly  do  not  write  down  their  happiness. 

Wholly  absorbed  by  the  melancholy  of  the  present 
and  the  poetry  of  the  past,  my  thoughts  peopled  with 
beautiful  shapes,  and  my  eyes  ever  gratified  by  the 
pure  and  harmonious  lines  of  the  landscape,  I  was 
resting  in  the  tavern  at  Monte- Allegro,  sipping  a 
glass  of  heavy,  fiery  wine,  when  I  saw  two  persons 
enter  the  waiting-room,  whom,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, I  recognized  as  the  Prince  and  Princess  Trepof. 

This  time  I  saw  the  princess  in  the  light — and  what 
a  light !  He  who  has  known  that  of  Sicily  can  better 
comprehend  the  words  of  Sophocles :  "  O  holy  light ! 
.  .  .  Eye  of  the  Golden  D<vy ! "  Madame  Trepof, 
dressed  in  brown-holland  and  wearing  a  broad-brimmed 


48  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

straw  hat,  appeared  to  me  a  very  pretty  woman  of 
about  twenty-eight.  Her  eyes  were  luminous  as  a 
child's ;  but  her  slightly  plump  chin  indicated  the 
age  of  plenitude.  She  is,  I  must  confess  it,  quite  an 
attractive  person.  She  is  supple  and  changeful ;  her 
mood  is  like  water  itself — and,  thank  Heaven !  I  am 
no  navigator.  I  thought  I  discerned  in  her  manner 
a  sort  of  ill-humor,  which  I  attributed  presently,  by 
reason  of  some  observations  she  uttered  at  random, 
to  the  fact  that  she  had  met  no  brigands  upon  her 
route. 

"  Such  things  only  happen  to  us !"  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  gesture  of  discouragement. 

She  called  for  a  glass  of  iced  water,  which  the  land- 
lord presented  to  her  with  a  gesture  that  recalled 
to  me  those  scenes  of  funeral  oiferings  painted  upon 
Greek  vases. 

I  was  in  no  hurry  to  introduce  myself  to  a  lady 
vho  had  so  abruptly  dropped  my  acquaintance  in  the 
:ublic  square  at  Naples ;  but  she  perceived  me  in  my 
corner,  and  her  frown  notified  me  very  plainly  that 
our  accidental  meeting  was  disagreeable  to  her. 

After  she  had  sipped  her  ice-water  for  a  few  mo- 
ments—  whether  because  her  whim  had  suddenly 
changed,  or  because  my  loneliness  aroused  her  pity, 
I  did  not  know — she  walked  directly  to  me. 

"Good-day,  Monsieur  Bonnard,"  she  said.  "How 
do  you  do  ?  What  strange  chance  enables  us  to  meet 
again  in  this  frightful  country  ?" 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.           49 

"  This  country  is  not  frightful,  Madame,"  I  replied. 
Beauty  is  so  great  and  so  august  a  quality  that  centu- 
ries of  barbarism  cannot  efface  it  so  completely  that 
adorable  vestiges  of  it  will  not  always  remain.  The 
majesty  of  the  antique  Ceres  still  overshadows  these 
arid  valleys;  and  that  Greek  Muse  who  made  Are- 
thusa  and  Maenalus  ring  with  her  divine  accents,  still 
sings  for  my  ears  upon  the  barren  mountain  and  in 
the  place  of  the  dried-up  spring.  Yes,  Madame,  when 
our  globe,  no  longer  inhabited,  shall,  like  the  moon, 
roll  a  wan  corpse  through  space,  the  soil  which  bears 
the  ruins  of  Selimonte  will  still  keep  the  seal  of  beauty 
in  the  midst  of  universal  death ;  and  then,  then,  at 
least  there  will  be  no  frivolous  mouth  to  blaspheme 
the  grandeur  of  these  solitudes." 

I  knew  well  enough  that  my  words  were  beyond 
the  comprehension  of  the  pretty  little  empty -head 
which  heard  them.  But  an  old  fellow  like  myself 
who  has  worn  out  his  life  over  books  does  not  know 
how  to  adapt  his  tone  to  circumstances.  Besides,  I 
wished  to  give  Madame  Trepof  a  lesson  in  politeness. 
She  received  it  with  so  much  submission,  and  with 
such  an  air  of  comprehension,  that  I  hastened  to  add, 
as  good-naturedly  as  possible, 

"  As  to  whether  the  chance  which  has  enabled  me 
to  meet  you  again  be  lucky  or  unlucky,  I  cannot  de- 
cide the  question  until  I  am  sure  that  my  presence  be 
not  disagreeable  to  you.  You  appeared  to  become 
weary  of  my  company  very  suddenly  at  Naples  the 
4 


50  THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

other  day.  I  can  only  attribute  that  misfortune  to 
my  naturally  unpleasant  manner — since,  on  that  occa- 
sion, I  had  had  the  honor  of  meeting  you  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life." 

These  words  seemed  to  cause  her  inexplicable  joy. 
She  smiled  upon  me  in  the  most  gracious,  mischievous 
way,  and  said  very  earnestly,  holding  out  her  hand, 
which  I  touched  with  my  lips, 

"  Monsieur  Bonnard,  do  not  refuse  to  accept  a  seat 
in  my  carriage.  You  can  chat  with  me  on  the  way 
about  antiquity,  and  that  will  amuse  me  ever  so 
much." 

"  My  dear,"  exclaimed  the  prince,  "  you  can  do  just 
as  you  please ;  but  you  ought  to  remember  that  one 
is  horribly  cramped  in  that  carriage  of  yours;  and 
I  fear  you  are  only  offering  Monsieur  Bonnard  the 
chance  of  getting  a  frightful  attack  of  lumbago." 

Madame  Trepof  simply  shook  her  head  by  way  of 
explaining  that  such  considerations  had  no  weight 
with  her  whatever;  then  she  untied  her  hat.  The 
darkness  of  her  black  curls  descended  over  her  eyes, 
and  bathed  them  in  velvety  shadow.  She  remained 
a  little  while  quite  motionless,  and  her  face  assumed  a 
surprising  expression  of  reverie.  But  all  of  a  sudden 
she  darted  at  some  oranges  which  the  tavern-keeper 
had  brought  in  a  basket,  and  began  to  throw  them, 
one  by  one,  into  a  fold  of  her  dress. 

"These  will  be  nice  on  the  road,"  she  said.  "We 
are  going  just  where  you  are  going — to  Girgenti.  I 


THE  CRIME  OF  87LVE8TRE  BONNARD.  51 

must  tell  you  all  about  it.  You  know  that  my  hus- 
band is  making  a  collection  of  match-boxes.  We 
bought  thirteen  hundred  match-boxes  at  Marseilles. 
But  we  heard  there  was  a  factory  of  them  at  Gir- 
genti.  According  to  what  we  were  told,  it  is  a  very 
small  factory,  and  its  products — which  are  very  ugly 
— never  go  outside  the  city  and  its  suburbs.  So  we 
are  going  to  Girgenti  just  to  buy  match-boxes.  Dimi- 
tri  has  been  a  collector  of  all  sorts  of  things ;  but  the 
only  kind  of  collection  which  can  now  interest  him  is 
a  collection  of  match-boxes.  He  has  already  got  five 
thousand  two  hundred  and  fourteen  different  kinds. 
Some  of  them  gave  us  frightful  trouble  to  find.  For 
instance,  we  knew  that  at  Naples  boxes  were  once 
made  with  the  portraits  of  Mazzini  and  Garibaldi  on 
them;  and  that  the  police  had  seized  the  plates  from 
which  the  portraits  were  printed,  and  put  the  manu- 
facturer in  jail.  Well,  by  dint  of  searching  and  in- 
quiring for  ever  so  long  a  while,  we  found  one  of 
those  boxes  at  last  for  sale  at  one  hundred  francs, 
instead  of  two  sous.  It  was  not  really  too  dear  at 
that  price;  but  we  were  denounced  for  buying  it. 
We  were  taken  for  conspirators.  All  our  baggage 

A  OO      O 

was  searched;  they  could  not  find  the  box,  because 
I  had  hidden  it  so  well ;  but  they  found  my  jewels, 
and  carried  them  off.  They  have  them  still.  The 
incident  made  quite  a  sensation,  and  we  were  going 
to  get  arrested.  But  the  king  was  displeased  about 
it,  and  he  ordered  them  to  leave  us  alone.  Up  to 


52  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

that  time,  I  used  to  think  it  was  very  stupid  to  col- 
lect match-boxes ;  but  when  I  found  that  there  were 
risks  of  losing  liberty,  and  perhaps  even  life,  by  doing 
it,  I  began  to  feel  a  taste  for  it.  Now  I  am  an  abso- 
lute fanatic  on  the  subject.  We  are  going  to  Sweden 
next  summer  to  complete  our  series.  .  .  .  Are  we  not, 
Dimitri  2" 

I  felt — must  I  confess  it? — a  thorough  sympathy 
with  these  intrepid  collectors.  No  doubt  I  would 
rather  have  found  Monsieur  and  Madame  Trepof  en- 
gaged in  collecting  antique  marbles  or  painted  vases 
in  Sicily.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  found  them  in- 
terested in  the  ruins  of  Syracuse,  or  the  poetical  tra- 
ditions of  the  Eryx.  But  at  all  events,  they  were 
making  some  sort  of  a  collection — they  belonged  to 
the  great  confraternity — and  I  could  not  possibly 
make  fun  of  them  without  making  fun  of  myself. 
Besides,  Madame  Trepof  had  spoken  of  her  collection 
with  such  an  odd  mingling  of  irony  and  enthusiasm 
that  I  could  not  help  finding  the  idea  a  very  good  one. 

We  were  getting  ready  to  leave  the  tavern,  when 
we  noticed  some  people  coming  down-stairs  from  the 
upper  room,  carrying  carbines  under  their  dark  cloaks. 
To  me  they  had  the  look  of  thorough  bandits ;  and 
after  they  were  gone  I  told  Monsieur  Trepof  my 
opinion  of  them.  He  answered  me,  very  quietly,  that 
he  also  thought  they  were  regular  bandits ;  and  the 
guides  begged  us  to  apply  for  an  escort  of  gendarmes, 
but  Madame  Trepof  besought  us  not  to  do  anything 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          53 

of  the  kind.  She  declared  that  we  must  not  "spoil 
her  journey." 

Then,  turning  her  persuasive  eyes  upon  me,  she 
asked, 

"  Do  you  not  believe,  Monsieur  Bonnard,  that  there 
is  nothing  in  life  worth  having  except  sensations  ?" 

"  Why,  certainly,  Madame,"  I  answered ;  "  but  then 
we  must  take  into  consideration  the  nature  of  the  sen- 
sations themselves.  Those  which  a  noble  memory  or 
a  grand  spectacle  creates  within  us  certainly  represent 
what  is  best  in  human  life ;  but  those  merely  resulting 
from  the  menace  of  danger  seem  to  me  sensations 
which  one  should  be  very  careful  to  avoid  as  much  as 
possible.  For  example,  would  you  think  it  a  very 
pleasant  thing,  Madame,  while  travelling  over  the 
mountains  at  midnight,  to  find  the  muzzle  of  a  car- 
bine suddenly  pressed  against  your  forehead  ?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  replied;  "the  comic -operas  have 
made  carbines  absolutely  ridiculous,  and  it  would  be  a 
great  misfortune  to  any  young  woman  to  find  herself 
in  danger  from  an  absurd  weapon.  But  it  would  be 
quite  different  with  a  knife — a  very  cold  and  very 
bright  knife-blade,  which  makes  a  cold  shudder  go 
right  through  one's  heart." 

She  shuddered  even  as  she  spoke ;  closed  her  eyes, 
and  threw  her  head  back.  Then  she  resumed : 

"  People  like  you  are  so  happy !  You  can  interest 
yourselves  in  all  sorts  of  things !" 

She  gave  a  sidelong  look  at  her  husband,  who  was 


54          THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

talking  with  the  innkeeper.  Then  she  leaned  tow- 
ards me,  and  murmured  very  low  : 

"  You  see,  Dimitri  and  I,  we  are  both  suffering  from 
ennui  !  We  have  still  the  match-boxes.  But  at  last 
one  gets  tired  even  of  match-boxes.  Besides,  our  col- 
lection will  soon  be  complete.  And  then  what  are 
we  going  to  do  ?" 

"  Oh,  Madame !"  I  exclaimed,  touched  by  the  moral 
unhappiness  of  this  pretty  person,  "  if  you  only  had  a 
son,  then  you  would  know  what  to  do.  You  would 
then  learn  the  purpose  of  your  life,  and  your  thoughts 
would  become  at  once  more  serious  and  yet  more 
cheerful." 

"  But  I  have  a  son,"  she  replied.  "  He  is  a  big  boy ; 
he  is  eleven  years  old,  and  he  suffers  from  ennui  like 
the  rest  of  us.  Yes,  my  George  has  ennui,  too ;  he  is 
tired  of  everything.  It  is  very  wretched." 

She  glanced  again  towards  her  husband,  who  was 
superintending  the  harnessing  of  the  mules  on  the 
road  outside — testing  the  condition  of  girths  and 
straps.  Then  she  asked  me  whether  there  had  been 
many  changes  on  the  Quai  Malaquais  during  the  past 
ten  years.  She  declared  she  never  visited  that  neigh- 
borhood because  it  was  too  far  away. 

"  Too  far  from  Monte- Allegro  ?"  I  queried. 

"  "Why,  no !"  she  replied.  "  Too  far  from  the  Avenue 
des  Champs-^lysees,  where  we  live." 

And  she  murmured  over  again,  as  if  talking  to  her- 
self, "  Too  far ! — too  far  1"  in  a  tone  of  reverie  which 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          55 

I  could  not  possibly  account  for.  All  at  once  she 
smiled  again,  and  said  to  me, 

"  I  like  you,  Monsieur  Bonnard ! — I  like  you  very, 
very  much !" 

The  mules  had  been  harnessed.  The  young  woman 
hastily  picked  up  a  few  oranges  which  had  rolled  off 
her  lap ;  rose  up ;  looked  at  me,  and  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Oh !"  she  exclaimed, "  how  I  should  like  to  see  you 
grappling  with  the  brigands !  You  would  say  such  ex- 
traordinary things  to  them !  .  .  .  Please  take  my  hat, 
and  hold  my  umbrella  for  me,  Monsieur  Bonnard." 

"  What  a  strange  little  mind !"  I  thought  to  myself, 
as  I  followed  her.  "  It  could  only  have  been  in  a  mo- 
ment of  inexcusable  thoughtlessness  that  Nature  gave 
a  child  to  such  a  giddy  little  woman !" 


Girgenti.    Same  day. 

HER  manners  had  shocked  me.  I  left  her  to  ar- 
range herself  in  her  lettica,  and  I  made  myself  as  com- 
fortable as  I  could  in  my  own.  These  vehicles,  which 
have  no  wheels,  are  carried  by  two  mules — one  before 
and  one  behind.  This  kind  of  litter,  or  chaise,  is  of 
ancient  origin.  I  had  often  seen  representations  of 
similar  ones  in  the  French  MSS.  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury. I  had  no  idea  then  that  one  of  those  vehicles 
would  be  at  a  future  day  placed  at  my  own  disposal 
We  must  never  be  too  sure  of  anything. 


66  THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

For  three  hours  the  mules  sounded  their  little  bells, 
and  thumped  the  calcined  ground  with  their  hoofs. 
On  either  hand  there  slowly  defiled  by  us  the  barren 
monstrous  shapes  of  a  nature  totally  African. 

Half-way  we  made  a  halt  to  allow  our  animals  to 
recover  breath. 

Madame  Trepof  came  to  me  on  the  road,  took  my 
arm,  and  drew  me  a  little  away  from  the  party.  Then, 
very  suddenly,  she  said  to  me  in  a  tone  of  voice  I  had 
never  heard  before : 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  am  a  wicked  woman.  My 
George  knows  that  I  am  a  good  mother." 

We  walked  side  by  side  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
She  looked  up,  and  I  saw  that  she  was  crying. 

"  Madame,"  I  said  to  her,  "  look  at  this  soil  which 
has  been  burned  and  cracked  by  five  long  months  of 
fiery  heat.  A  little  white  lily  has  sprung  up  from  it." 

And  I  pointed  with  my  cane  to  the  frail  stalk, 
tipped  by  a  double  blossom. 

"  Your  heart,"  I  said,  "  however  arid  it  be,  bears 
also  its  white  lily ;  and  that  is  reason  enough  why  I 
do  not  believe  that  you  are  what  you  say — a  wicked 
woman." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes !"  she  cried,  with  the  obstinacy  of  a 
child — "  I  am  a  wicked  woman.  But  I  am  ashamed 
to  appear  so  before  you  who  are  so  good — so  very,' 
very  good." 

"  You  do  not  know  anything  at  all  about  it,"  I  said 
to  her. 


THE  CRIME  OF  87LVESTRE  BONNARD.  57 

"  I  know  it !   I  know  all  about  you,  Monsieur  Bon- 
nard !"  she  declared,  with  a  smile. 
And  she  jumped  back  into  her  lettica. 


Girgenti)  November  30,  1859. 

I  AWOKE  the  following  morning  in  the  House  of  Gel- 
lias.  Gellias  was  a  rich  citizen  of  ancient  Agrigentum. 
He  was  equally  celebrated  for  his  generosity  and  for 
his  wealth ;  and  he  endowed  his  native  city  with  a 
great  number  of  free  inns.  Gellias  has  been  dead  for 
thirteen  hundred  years ;  and  to-day  there  is  no  more 
gratuitous  hospitality  among  civilized  peoples.  But 
the  name  of  Gellias  has  become  that  of  a  hotel  in 
which,  by  reason  of  fatigue,  I  was  able  to  obtain  one 
good  night's  sleep. 

The  modern  Girgenti  lifts  its  high,  narrow,  solid 
streets,  dominated  by  a  sombre  Spanish  cathedral, 
upon  the  site  of  the  acropolis  of  the  antique  Agri- 
gentum. I  can  see  from  my  windows,  half-way  on 
the  hillside  towards  the  sea,  the  white  range  of  tem- 
ples partially  destroyed.  The  ruins  alone  have  some 
aspect  of  coolness.  All  the  rest  is  arid.  Water  and 
life  have  forsaken  Agrigentum.  Water — the  divine 
Nestis  of  the  Agrigentine  Empedocles — is  so  neces- 
sary to  animated  beings  that  nothing  can  live  far  from 
the  rivers  and  the  springs.  But  the  port  of  Girgenti, 
situated  at  a  distance  of  three  kilometres  from  the 
city,  has  a  great  commerce.  "  And  it  is  in  this  dis- 


58  THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

mal  city,"  I  said  to  myself,  "upon  this  precipitous 
rock,  that  the  manuscript  of  Clerk  Alexander  is  to 
be  found !"  I  asked  my  way  to  the  house  of  Signer 
Michael- Angelo  Polizzi,  and  proceeded  thither. 

I  found  Signer  Polizzi,  dressed  all  in  white  from 
head  to  feet,  busy  cooking  sausages  in  a  frying-pan. 
At  the  sight  of  me,  he  let  go  the  handle  of  the  frying- 
pan,  threw  up  his  arms  in  the  air,  and  uttered  shrieks 
of  enthusiasm.  He  was  a  little  man  whose  pimply 
features,  aquiline  nose,  round  eyes,  and  projecting 
chin  formed  a  very  expressive  physiognomy. 

He  called  me  "Excellence,"  said  he  was  going  to 
mark  that  day  with  a  white  stone,  and  made  me  sit 
down.  The  hall  in  which  we  were  represented  the 
union  of  kitchen,  reception-room,  bedchamber,  studio, 
and  wine-cellar.  There  were  charcoal  furnaces  visi- 
ble, a  bed,  paintings,  an  easel,  bottles,  strings  of 
onions,  and  a  magnificent  lustre  of  colored  glass  pen- 
dants. I  glanced  at  the  paintings  on  the  wall. 

"  The  arts !  the  arts !"  cried  Signer  Polizzi,  throw- 
ing up  his  arms  again  to  heaven — "  the  arts !  What  dig- 
nity !  what  consolation !  Excellence,  I  am  a  painter !" 

And  he  showed  me  an  unfinished  Saint-Francis, 
which  indeed  could  very  well  remain  unfinished  for- 
ever without  any  loss  to  religion  or  to  art.  Next  he 
showed  me  some  old  paintings  of  a  better  style,  but 
apparently  restored  after  a  decidedly  reckless  manner. 

"  I  repair,"  he  said — "  I  repair  old  paintings.  Oh, 
the  Old  Masters !  What  genius !  what  soul  1" 


THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD.  59 

"Why,  then,"  I  said  to  him,  "you  must  be  a 
painter,  an  archaeologist,  and  a  wine-merchant  all 
in  one?" 

"  At  your  service,  Excellence,"  he  answered.  "  I 
have  a  zucco  here  at  this  very  moment — a  zucco  of 
which  every  single  drop  is  a  pearl  of  fire.  I  want 
your  Lordship  to  taste  of  it." 

"  I  esteem  the  wines  of  Sicily,"  I  responded ;  "  but 
it  was  not  for  the  sake  of  your  flagons  that  I  came 
to  see  you,  Signer  PolizzL" 

He  :  "  Then  you  have  come  to  see  me  about  paint- 
ings. You  are  an  amateur.  It  is  an  immense  delight 
for  me  to  receive  amateurs.  I  am  going  to  show  you 
the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  Monrealese;  yes,  Excellence,  his 
chfff-d?cewvr6  !  An  Adoration  of  Shepherds !  It  is  the 
pearl  of  the  whole  Sicilian  school !" 

I :  "  Later  on  I  will  be  glad  to  see  the  chef-cFasuvre; 
but  let  us  first  talk  about  the  business  which  brings 
me  here." 

His  little  quick  bright  eyes  watched  my  face  curi- 
ously ;  and  I  perceived,  with  anguish,  that  he  had  not 
the  least  suspicion  of  the  purpose  of  my  visit. 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  over  my  forehead ;  and  in 
the  bewilderment  of  my  anxiety  I  stammered  out 
something  to  this  effect : 

"  I  have  come  from  Paris  expressly  to  look  at  a 
manuscript  of  the  '  Legende  Doree,'  which  you  in- 
formed me  was  in  your  possession." 

At  these  words  he  threw  up  his  arms,  opened  his 


60          THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

mouth  and  eyes  to  the  widest  possible  extent,  and 
betrayed  every  sign  of  extreme  nervousness. 

"  Oh !  the  manuscript  of  the  '  Golden  Legend !'  A 
pearl,  Excellence !  a  ruby,  a  diamond !  Two  miniatures 
so  perfect  that  they  give  one  the  feeling  of  glimpses 
of  Paradise !  What  suavity !  Those  colors  ravished 
from  the  corollas  of  flowers  make  a  honey  for  the 
eyes !  Even  a  Sicilian  could  have  done  no  better  !" 

"  Let  me  see  it,  then,"  I  asked ;  unable  to  conceal 
either  my  anxiety  or  my  hope. 

"  Let  you  see  it !"  cried  Polizzi.  "  But  how  can  I, 
Excellence  ?  I  have  not  got  it  any  more !  I  have  not 
got  it !" 

And  he  seemed  determined  to  tear  out  his  hair. 
He  might  indeed  have  pulled  every  hair  in  his  head 
out  of  his  hide  before  I  should  have  tried  to  prevent 
him.  But  he  stopped  of  his  own  accord,  before  he 
had  done  himself  any  grievous  harm. 

"  What !"  I  cried  out  in  anger — "  what !  you  make 
me  come  all  the  way  from  Paris  to  Girgenti,  by  prom- 
ising to  show  me  a  manuscript,  and  now,  when  I  come, 
you  tell  me  you  have  not  got  it!  It  is  simply  in- 
famous, Monsieur !  I  shall  leave  your  conduct  to  be 
judged  by  all  honest  men !" 

Anybody  who  could  have  seen  me  at  that  moment 
would  have  been  able  to  form  a  good  idea  of  the  as- 
pect of  a  furious  sheep. 

"  It  is  infamous !  it  is  infamous !"  I  repeated,  waving 
my  arms,  which  trembled  from  anger. 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.          61 

Then  Micael-Angelo  Polizzi  let  himself  fall  into  a 
chair  in  the  attitude  of  a  dying  hero.  I  saw  his  eyes 
fill  with  taars,  and  his  hair — until  then  flamboyant  and 
erect  upon  his  head — fall  down  in  limp  disorder  over 
his  brow. 

"I  am  a  father,  Excellence!  I  am  a  father!"  he 
groaned,  wringing  his  hands. 

He  continued,  sobbing : 

"  My  son  Kaf ael — the  son  of  my  poor  wife,  for  whose 
death  I  have  been  mourning  fifteen  years — Kafael,  Ex- 
cellence, wanted  to  settle  at  Paris ;  he  hired  a  shop  in 
the  Rue  Lafitte  for  the  sale  of  curiosities.  I  gave  him 
everything  precious  which  I  had — I  gave  him  my 
finest  majolicas ;  my  most  beautiful  Urbino  ware ; 
my  masterpieces  of  art :  what  paintings,  Signor !  Even 
now  they  dazzle  me  when  I  see  them  only  in  imagina- 
tion !  And  all  of  them  signed !  Finally,  I  gave  him 
the  manuscript  of  the  'Golden  Legend!'  I  would 
have  given  him  my  flesh  and  my  blood !  An  only  son, 
Signor !  the  son  of  my  poor  saintly  wife !" 

"  So,"  I  said,  "  while  I — relying  upon  your  written 
word,  Monsieur — was  travelling  to  the  very  heart  of 
Sicily  to  find  the  manuscript  of  the  Clerk  Alexander, 
the  same  manuscript  was  actually  exposed  for  sale  in 
a  window  in  Rue  Lafitte,  only  fifteen  hundred  yards 
from  my  house  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  was  there !  that  is  positively  true !"  ex- 
claimed Signor  Polizzi,  suddenly  growing  calm  again ; 
"  and  it  is  there  still — at  least  I  hope  it  is,  Excellence." ' 


62          THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

He  took  a  card  from  a  shelf  as  he  spoke,  and  offered 
it  to  me,  saying, 

"  Here  is  the  address  of  my  son.  Make  it  known  to 
your  friends,  and  you  will  oblige  me.  Faience  and 
enamelled  wares ;  hangings ;  pictures.  He  has  a  com- 
plete stock  of  objects  of  art — all  at  the  fairest  possible 
prices — and  everything  authentic,  I  can  vouch  for  it, 
upon  my  honor !  Go  and  see  him.  He  will  sho\v  you 
the  manuscript  of  the  '  Golden  Legend.'  Two  min- 
iatures miraculously  fresh  in  color !" 

I  was  feeble  enough  to  take  the  card  he  held  out  to 
me. 

The  fellow  was  taking  further  advantage  of  my 
weakness  to  make  me  circulate  the  name  of  Rafael 
Polizzi  among  the  societies  of  learning ! 

My  hand  was  already  on  the  door-knob,  when  the 
Sicilian  caught  me  by  the  arm  ,•  he  had  a  look  as  of 
sudden  inspiration. 

"Ah!  Excellence!"  he  cried,  "what  a  city  is  this 
city  of  ours !  It  gave  birth  to  Empedocles !  Empedo- 
cles !  "What  a  great  man !  what  a  great  citizen !  "What 
audacity  of  thought !  what  virtue !  what  soul !  At  the 
port  over  there  is  a  statue  of  Empedocles,  before  which  I 
bare  my  head  each  time  that  I  pass  by !  When  Rafael, 
my  son,  was  going  away  to  found  an  establishment  of 
antiquities  in  the  Rue  Lafitte,  at  Paris,  I  took  him  to 
the  port,  and  there,  at  the  foot  of  that  statue  of  Em- 
pedocles, I  bestowed  upon  him  my  paternal  benedic- 
tion !  '  Always  remember  Empedocles !'  I  said  to  him. 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.          63 

Ah !  Signer,  what  our  unhappy  country  needs  to-day 
is  a  new  Empedocles !  Would  you  not  like  me  to  show 
you  the  way  to  his  statue,  Excellence  ?  1  will  be  your 
guide  among  the  ruins  here.  I  will  show  you  the  tem- 
ple of  Castor  and  Pollux,  the  temple  of  the  Olympian 
Jupiter,  the  temple  of  the  Lucinian  Juno,  the  antique 
well,  the  tomb  of  Theron,  and  the  Gate  of  Gold !  All 
the  professional  guides  are  asses ;  but  we — we  shall 
make  excavations,  if  you  are  willing — and  we  shall 
discover  treasures !  I  know  the  science  of  discovering 
hidden  treasures — the  secret  art  of  finding  their  where- 
abouts— a  gift  from  Heaven !" 

I  succeeded  in  tearing  myself  away  from  his  grasp. 
But  he  ran  after  me  again,  stopped  me  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  said  in  my  ear, 

"  Listen,  Excellence.  I  will  conduct  you  about  the 
city ;  I  will  introduce  you  to  some  Girgentines !  "What 
a  race !  what  types !  what  forms !  Sicilian  girls,  Sig- 
nor ! — the  antique  beauty  itself  !'* 

"  Go  to  the  devil !"  I  cried,  at  last,  in  anger,  and 
rushed  into  the  street,  leaving  him  still  writhing  in  the 
loftiness  of  his  enthusiasm. 

When  I  had  got  out  of  his  sight,  I  sank  down  upon 
a  stone,  and  began  to  think,  with  my  face  in  my  hands. 

"  And  it  was  for  this,"  I  said  to  myself — "  it  was  to 
hear  such  propositions  as  this  that  I  came  to  Sicily !" 
That  Polizzi  is  simply  a  scoundrel,  and  his  son  an- 
other ;  and  they  made  a  plan  together  to  ruin  me." 
But  what  was  their  scheme  ?  I  could  not  unravel  it. 


64  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

Meanwhile,  it  may  be  imagined  how  discouraged  and 
humiliated  I  felt. 

A  merry  burst  of  laughter  caused  me  to  turn  my 
head,  and  I  saw  Madame  Trepof  running  in  advance 
of  her  husband,  and  holding  up  something  which  I 
could  not  distinguish  clearly. 

She  sat  down  beside  me,  and  showed  me — laughing 
more  merrily  all  the  while — an  abominable  little  paste- 
board box,  on  which  was  printed  a  red-and-blue  face, 
which  the  inscription  declared  to  be  the  face  of  Em- 
pedocles. 

"  Yes,  Madam,"  I  said, "  but  that  abominable  Polizzi, 
to  whom  I  advise  you  not  to  send  Monsieur  Trepof, 
has  made  me  fall  out  forever  with  Empedocles ;  and 
this  portrait  is  not  at  all  of  a  nature  to  make  me  feel 
more  kindly  to  the  ancient  philosopher." 

"  Oh !"  declared  Madame  Trepof,  "  it  is  ugly,  but  it 
is  rare!  These  boxes  are  not  exported  at  all;  you 
can  buy  them  only  where  they  are  made.  Dimitri 
has  six  others  just  like  this  in  his  pocket.  We  got 
them  so  as  to  exchange  with  other  collectors.  You 
understand  ?  At  nine  o'clock  this  morning  we  were  at 
the  factory.  You  see  we  did  not  waste  our  time." 

"  So  I  certainly  perceive,  Madame,"  I  replied,  bitter- 
ly ;  "  but  I  have  lost  mine." 

I  then  saw  that  she  was  naturally  a  good-hearted 
woman.  All  her  merriment  vanished. 

"  Poor  Monsieur  Bonnard !  poor  Monsieur  Bon- 
nard !"  she  murmured. 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD,          65 

And,  taking  my  hand  in  hers,  she  added : 

"  Tell  me  about  your  troubles." 

I  told  her  about  them.  My  story  was  long;  but 
she  was  evidently  touched  by  it,  for  she  asked  me 
quite  a  number  of  circumstantial  questions,  which  I 
took  for  proof  of  friendly  interest.  She  wanted  to 
know  the  exact  title  of  the  manuscript,  its  shape,  its 
appearance,  and  its  age ;  she  asked  me  for  the  address 
of  Signer  Rafael  Polizzi. 

And  I  gave  it  to  her ;  thus  doing  (O  destiny !)  pre- 
cisely what  the  abominable  Polizzi  had  told  me  to 
do. 

It  is  sometimes  difficult  to  check  one's  self.  I  recom- 
menced my  plaints  and  my  imprecations.  But  this 
time  Madame  Trepof  only  burst  out  laughing. 

"  "Why  do  you  laugh  ?"  I  asked  her. 

"  Because  I  am  a  wicked  woman,"  she  answered. 

And  she  fled  away,  leaving  me  all  disheartened  on 
my  stone. 

Paris,  December  8,  1859. 

MY  unpacked  trunks  still  encumbered  the  hall.  I 
was  seated  at  a  table  covered  with  all  those  good  things 
which  the  land  of  France  produces  for  the  delectation 
of  gourmets.  I  was  eating  a  pate  de  Chartres,  which 
is  alone  sufficient  to  make  one  love  one's  country. 
Therese,  standing  before  me  with  her  hands  joined 
over  her  white  apron,  was  looking  at  me  with  benig- 
5 


66  THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

nity,  with  anxiety,  and  with  pity.    Hamilcar  was  rub- 
bing himself  against  my  legs,  wild  with  delight. 
These  words  of  an  old  poet  came  back  to  my  memory : 

"  Happy  is  he  who,  like  Ulysses,  hath  made  a  goodly  journey," 

..."  Well,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  I  travelled  to  no 
purpose ;  I  have  come  back  with  empty  hands ;  but, 
like  Ulysses,  I  made  a  goodly  journey." 

And  having  taken  my  last  sip  of  coffee,  I  asked 
Therese  for  my  hat  and  cane,  which  she  gave  me  not 
without  dire  suspicions :  she  feared  I  might  be  going 
upon  another  journey.  But  I  reassured  her  by  telling 
her  to  have  dinner  ready  at  six  o'clock. 

It  had  always  been  a  keen  pleasure  for  me  to  breathe 
the  air  in  those  Parisian  streets  whose  every  paving- 
slab  and  every  stone  I  love  devotedly.  But  I  had  an 
end  in  view,  and  I  took  my  way  straight  to  the  Rue 
Lafitte.  I  was  not  long  in  finding  the  establishment 
of  Signor  Rafael  Polizzi.  It  was  distinguishable  by 
a  great  display  of  old  paintings  which,  although  all 
bearing  the  signature  of  some  illustrious  artist,  had  a 
certain  family  air  of  resemblance  that  might  have 
suggested  some  touching  idea  about  the  fraternity  of 
genius,  had  it  not  still  more  forcibly  suggested  the 
professional  tricks  of  Polizzi  Sr.  Enriched  by  these 
doubtful  works  of  art,  the  shop  was  further  ren- 
dered attractive  by  various  petty  curiosities :  poniards, 
drinking-vessels,  goblets,  fyulines,  brass  gaudrons,  and 
Hispano- Arabian  wares  of  metallic  lustre. 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.  67 

Upon  a  Portuguese  arm-chair,  decorated  with  an 
escutcheon,  lay  a  copy  of  the  "Heures"  of  Simon 
Vostre,  open  at  the  page  which  has  an  astrological 
figure  on  it;  and  an  old  Yitruvius,  placed  upon  a 
quaint  chest,  displayed  its  masterly  engravings  of 
caryatides  and  telamones.  This  apparent  disorder 
which  only  masked  cunning  arrangement,  this  fac- 
titious hazard  which  had  placed  the  best  objects  in 
the  most  favorable  light,  would  have  increased  my 
distrust  of  the  place,  but  that  the  distrust  which  the 
mere  name  of  Polizzi  had  already  inspired  could  not 
have  been  increased  by  any  circumstances — being  al- 
ready infinite. 

Signor  Rafael,  who  sat  there  as  the  presiding  ge- 
nius of  all  these  vague  and  incongruous  shapes,  im- 
pressed me  as  a  phlegmatic  young  man,  with  a  sort  of 
English  character.  He  betrayed  no  sign  whatever  of 
those  transcendent  faculties  displayed  by  his  father 
in  the  arts  of  mimicry  and  declamation. 

I  told  him  what  I  had  come  for ;  he  opened  a  cabi- 
net and  drew  from  it  a  manuscript,  which  he  placed  on 
a  table  that  I  might  examine  it  at  my  leisure. 

Never  in  my  life  did  I  experience  such  an  emotion 
— except,  indeed,  during  some  few  brief  months  of  my 
youth,  months  whose  memories,  though  I  should  live 
a  hundred  years,  would  remain  as  fresh  at  my  last 
hour  as  in  the  first  day  they  came  to  me. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  very  manuscript  described  by  the 
librarian  of  Sir  Thomas  Raleigh ;  it  was,  indeed,  the 


68          THE  CRIME  OP  8YLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

manuscript  of  the  Clerk  Alexander  which  I  saw,  which 
I  touched !  The  work  of  Voragine  himself  had  been 
perceptibly  abridged ;  but  that  made  little  difference 
to  me.  All  the  inestimable  additions  of  the  monk  of 
Saint- Germain -des-Pres  were  there.  That  was  the 
main  point !  I  tried  to  read  the  Legend  of  Saint  Droc- 
toveus ;  but  I  could  not — all  the  lines  of  the  page  quiv- 
ered before  my  eyes,  and  there  was  a  sound  in  my  ears 
like  the  noise  of  a  windmill  in  the  country  at  night. 
Nevertheless,  I  was  able  to  see  that  the  manuscript 
offered  every  evidence  of  indubitable  authenticity. 
The  two  drawings  of  the  Purification  of  the  Virgin 
and  the  Coronation  of  Proserpine  were  meagre  in  de- 
sign and  vulgar  in  violence  of  coloring.  Considerably 
damaged  in  1824,  as  attested  by  the  catalogue  of  Sir 
Thomas,  they  had  obtained  during  the  interval  a  new 
aspect  of  freshness.  But  this  miracle  did  not  surprise 
me  at  all.  And,  besides,  what  did  I  care  about  the  two 
miniatures  ?  The  legends  and  the  poem  of  Alexander 
• — those  alone  formed  the  treasure  I  desired.  My 
eyes  devoured  as  much  of  it  as  they  had  the  power 
to  absorb. 

I  affected  indifference  while  asking  Signor  Polizzi 
the  price  of  the  manuscript ;  and,  while  awaiting  his 
reply,  I  offered  up  a  secret  prayer  that  the  price  might 
not  exceed  the  amount  of  ready  money  at  my  disposal 
— already  much  diminished  by  the  cost  of  my  expen- 
sive voyage.  Signor  Polizzi,  however,  informed  me 
that  he  was  not  at  liberty  to  dispose  of  the  article,  in- 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          69 

asmuch  as  it  did  not  belong  to  him,  and  was  to  be  sold 
at  auction  shortly,  at  the  Hotel  des  Yentes,  with  a 
number  of  other  MSS.  and  several  incunabula. 

This  was  a  severe  blow  to  me.  I  tried  to  preserve 
my  calmness,  notwithstanding,  and  replied  somewhat 
to  this  effect : 

"  You  surprise  me,  Monsieur !  Your  father,  whom  I 
talked  with  recently  at  Girgenti,  told  me  positively 
the  manuscript  was  yours.  You  cannot  now  attempt 
to  make  me  discredit  your  father's  word." 

"I  did  own  the  manuscript,  indeed,"  answered 
Signor  Rafael  with  absolute  frankness ;  "  but  I  do  not 
own  it  any  longer.  I  sold  that  manuscript — the  re- 
markable interest  of  which  you  have  not  failed  to 
perceive — to  an  amateur  whom  I  am  forbidden  to 
name,  and  who,  for  reasons  which  I  am  not  at  liberty 
to  mention,  finds  himself  obliged  to  sell  his  collection. 
I  am  honored  with  the  confidence  of  my  customer, 
and  was  commissioned  by  him  to  draw  up  the  cata- 
logue and  manage  the  sale,  which  takes  place  the  24th 
of  December.  Now,  if  you  will  be  kind  enough  to 
give  me  your  address,  I  will  have  the  pleasure  of  send- 
ing you  the  catalogue,  which  is  already  in  press.  You 
will  find  the  '  Legende  Doree '  described  in  it  as  *  No. 
42.' " 

I  gave  my  address,  and  left  the  shop. 

The  polite  gravity  of  the  son  impressed  me  quite  as 
disagreeably  as  the  impudent  buffoonery  of  the  father. 
I  hated,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  the  tricks  of  the 


70          THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

vile  hagglers  1  It  was  perfectly  evident  that  the  two 
rascals  had  a  secret  understanding,  and  had  only  de- 
vised this  auction-sale,  with  the  aid  of  a  professional 
appraiser,  to  force  the  bidding  on  the  manuscript  I 
wanted  so  much  up  to  an  outrageous  figure.  I  was 
completely  at  their  mercy.  There  is  one  evil  in  all 
passionate  desires,  even  the  noblest — namely,  that  they 
leave  us  subject  to  the  will  of  others,  and  in  so  far  de- 
pendent. This  reflection  made  me  suffer  cruelly ;  but 
it  did  not  conquer  my  longing  to  own  the  work  of 
Clerk  Alexander.  While  I  was  thus  meditating,  I 
heard  a  coachman  swear.  And  I  discovered  it  was  I 
whom  he  was  swearing  at  only  when  I  felt  the  pole 
of  a  carriage  poke  me  in  the  ribs.  I  started  aside, 
barely  in  time  to  save  myself  from  being  run  over; 
and  whom  did  I  perceive  through  the  windows  of  the 
coupe  f  Madame  Trepof,  being  taken  by  two  beauti- 
ful horses,  and  a  coachman  all  wrapped  up  in  furs  like 
a  Russian  loyard,  into  the  very  street  I  had  just  left. 
She  did  not  notice  me;  she  was  laughing  to  herself 
with  that  artless  grace  of  expression  which  still  pre- 
served for  her,  at  thirty  years,  all  the  charm  of  her 
early  youth. 

"  "Well,  well !"  I  said  to  myself,  "  she  is  laughing !  I 
suppose  she  must  have  just  found  another  match-box." 

And  I  made  my  way  back  to  the  Fonts,  feeling  very 
miserable. 

Nature,  eternally  indifferent,  neither  hastened  nor 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.  71 

hurried  the  twenty-fourth  day  of  December.  I  went 
to  the  Hotel  Bullion,  and  took  my  place  in  Salle  No. 
4,  immediately  below  the  high  desk  at  which  the  auc- 
tioneer Bouloze  and  the  expert  Polizzi  were  to  sit.  I 
saw  the  hall  gradually  fill  with  familiar  faces.  I  shook 
hands  with  several  old  booksellers  of  the  quays ;  but 
that  prudence  which  any  large  interest  inspires  in  even 
the  most  self-assured  caused  me  to  keep  silence  in  re- 
gard to  the  reason  of  my  unaccustomed  presence  in  the 
halls  of  the  Hotel  Bullion.  On  the  other  hand,  I  ques- 
tioned those  gentlemen  closely  about  the  purpose  of 
their  attendance  at  the  auction-sale;  and  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  finding  them  all  interested  about  mat- 
ters in  no  wise  related  to  my  affair. 

Little  by  little  the  hall  became  thronged  with  inter- 
ested or  merely  curious  spectators ;  and,  after  half  an 
hour's  delay,  the  auctioneer,  with  his  ivory  hammer, 
the  clerk  with  his  bundle  of  memorandum-papers,  and 
the  crier,  carrying  his  collection-box  fixed  to  the  end 
of  a  pole,  all  took  their  places  on  the  platform  in  the 
most  solemn  business  manner.  The  hall-boys  ranged 
themselves  at  the  foot  of  the  desk.  The  presiding  offi- 
cer having  declared  the  sale  open,  a  partial  hush  fol- 
lowed. 

A  commonplace  lot  of  Preces  pice,  with  miniatures, 
were  first  sold  off  at  mediocre  prices.  Needless  to  say, 
the  illuminations  of  these  books  were  in  perfect  con- 
dition ! 

The  lowness  of  the  bids  gave  courage  to  the  gather- 


72  THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

ing  of  second-hand  booksellers  present,  who  began  to 
mingle  with  us,  and  became  familiar.  The  dealers 
in  old  brass  and  bric-a-brac  pressed  forward  in  their 
turn,  waiting  for  the  doors  of  an  adjoining  room  to  be 
opened ;  and  the  voice  of  the  auctioneer  was  drowned 
by  the  jests  of  the  Auvergnats. 

A  magnificent  codex  of  the  "Guerre  des  Juif  s  "  revived 
attention.  It  was  long  disputed  for.  "  Five  thousand 
francs !  five  thousand !"  called  the  crier,  while  the  bric- 
a-brac  dealers  remained  silent  with  admiration.  Then 
seven  or  eight  antiphonaries  brought  us  back  again  to 
low  prices.  A  fat  old  woman,  in  loose  gown  and  bare- 
headed— a  dealer  in  second-hand  goods — encouraged 
by  the  size  of  the  books  and  the  low  prices  bidden, 
had  one  of  the  antiphonaries  knocked  down  to  her  for 
thirty  francs. 

At  last  the  expert  Polizzi  announced  No  42 :  "  The 
'  Golden  Legend ;'  French  MS. ;  inedited ;  two  superb 
miniatures.  Started  with  a  bid  of  three  thousand 
francs." 

"  Three  thousand !  three  thousand  bid  1"  yelled  the 
crier. 

"  Three  thousand !"  dryly  repeated  the  auctioneer. 

There  was  a  buzzing  in  my  head,  and,  as  through  a 
cloud,  I  saw  a  host  of  curious  faces  all  turning  towards 
the  manuscript,  which  a  boy  was  carrying  open  through 
the  audience. 

"  Three  thousand  and  fifty !"  I  said. 

I  was  frightened  by  the  sound  of  my  own  voice,  and 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.  73 

further  confused  by  seeing,  or  thinking  that  I  saw,  all 
eyes  turned  upon  me. 

"  Three  thousand  and  fifty  on  the  right !"  called  the 
crier,  taking  up  my  bid. 

"  Three  thousand  one  hundred !"  responded  Signer 
Polizzi. 

Then  began  a  heroic  duel  between  the  expert  and 
myself. 

"  Three  thousand  five  hundred !" 

"  Six  hundred !" 

"  Seven  hundred !" 

"  Four  thousand !" 

"  Four  thousand  five  hundred." 
.  Then,  by  a  sudden  bold  stroke,  Signor  Polizzi  raised 
the  bid  at  once  to  six  thousand. 

Six  thousand  francs  was  all  the  money  I  could  dis- 
pose of.  It  represented  the  possible.  I  risked  the 
impossible. 

"  Six  thousand  one  hundred !" 

Alas !  even  the  impossible  did  not  suffice. 

"  Six  thousand  five  hundred !"  replied  Signor  Po- 
lizzi, with  calm. 

I  bowed  my  head  and  sat  there  stupefied,  unable  to 
answer  either  yes  or  no  to  the  crier,  who  called  to  me : 

"  Six  thousand  five  hundred,  by  me — not  by  you  on 
the  right  there ! — it  is  my  bid — no  mistake !  Six  thou- 
sand five  hundred !" 

"Perfectly  understood!"  declared  the  auctioneer. 
"  Six  thousand  five  hundred.  Perfectly  clear ;  per- 


74          TUE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

fectly  plain.  .  .  .  Any  more  bids  ?  The  last  bid  is  six 
thousand  five  hundred  francs!" 

A  solemn  silence  prevailed.  Suddenly  I  felt  as  if 
my  head  had  burst  open.  It  was  the  hammer  of  the 
ministerial  officer,  who,  with  a  loud  blow  on  the  plat- 
form, adjudged  No.  42  irrevocably  to  Signor  Polizzi. 
Forthwith  the  pen  of  the  clerk,  coursing  over  the  pa- 
pier-timbre, registered  that  great  fact  in  a  single  line. 

I  was  absolutely  prostrated,  and  I  felt  the  utmost 
need  of  rest  and  quiet.  Nevertheless,  I  did  not  leave 
my  seat.  My  powers  of  reflection  slowly  returned. 
Hope  is  tenacious.  I  had  one  more  hope.  It  occurred  to 
me  that  the  new  owner  of  the  "  Legende  Doree  "  might 
be  some  intelligent  and  liberal  bibliophile  who  would 
allow  me  to  examine  the  MS.,  and  perhaps  even  to 
publish  the  more  important  parts.  And,  with  this 
idea,  as  soon  as  the  sale  was  over  I  approached  the 
expert  as  he  was  leaving  the  platform. 

"  Monsieur,"  I  asked  him,  "  did  you  buy  in  No.  42 
on  your  own  account,  or  on  commission  ?" 

"  On  commission.  I  was  instructed  not  to  let  it  go 
at  any  price." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  the  purchaser  ?" 

"  Monsieur,  I  regret  that  I  cannot  serve  you  in  that 
respect.  I  have  been  strictly  forbidden  to  mention 
the  name." 

I  went  home  in  despair. 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          75 

December  30,  1859. 

"THERESE!  don't  you  hear  the  bell  ?  Somebody  has 
been  ringing  at  the  door  for  the  last  quarter  of  an 
hour !" 

Therese  does  not  answer.  She  is  chattering  down- 
stairs with  the  concierge,  for  sure.  So  that  is  the  way 
you  observe  your  old  master's  birthday  ?  You  desert 
me  even  on  the  eve  of  Saint-Sylvestre !  Alas!  if  I 
am  to  hear  any  kind  wishes  to-day,  they  must  come  up 
from  the  ground ;  for  all  who  love  me  have  long  been 
buried.  I  really  don't  know  what  I  am  still  living 
for.  There  is  the  bell  again !  .  .  .  I  get  up  slowly  from 
my  seat  at  the  tire,  with  my  shoulders  still  bent  from 
stooping  over  it,  and  go  to  the  door  myself.  Who  do 
I  see  at  the  threshold?  It  is  not  a  dripping  Love, 
and  I  am  not  an  old  Anacreon ;  but  it  is  a  very  pretty 
little  boy  of  about  ten  years  old.  He  is  alone;  he 
raises  his  face  to  look  at  me.  His  cheeks  are  blush- 
ing ;  but  his  little  pert  nose  gives  one  an  idea  of  mis- 
chievous pleasantry.  He  has  feathers  in  his  cap,  and  a 
great  lace-ruff  on  his  jacket.  The  pretty  little  fellow ! 
He  holds  in  both  arms  a  bundle  as  big  as  himself,  and 
asks  me  if  I  am  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard.  I  tell 
him  yes ;  he  gives  me  the  bundle,  tells  me  his  mamma 
sent  it  to  me,  and  then  he  runs  down-stairs. 

I  go  down  a  few  steps ;  I  lean  over  the  balustrade, 
and  see  the  little  cap  whining  down  the  spiral  of  the 
stairway  like  a  feather  m  the  wind.  "  Good-by,  my 


76  THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNAIW. 

little  boy  !"  I  should  have  liked  so  much  to  question 
him.  But  what,  after  all,  could  I  have  asked  ?  It  is 
not  polite  to  question  children.  Besides,  the  package 
itself  will  probably  give  me  more  information  than 
the  messenger  could. 

It  is  a  very  big  bundle,  but  not  very  heavy.  I  take 
it  into  my  library,  and  there  untie  the  ribbons  and 
unfasten  the  paper  wrappings ;  and  I  see — what  ?  a 
log!  a  first-class  log!  a  real  Christmas  log,  but  so 
light  that  I  know  it  must  be  hollow.  Then  I  find  that 
it  is  indeed  composed  of  two  separate  pieces,  opening 
on  hinges,  and  fastened  with  hooks.  I  slip  the  hooks 
back,  and  find  myself  inundated  with  violets !  Vio- 
lets !  they  pour  over  my  table,  over  my  knees,  over  the 
carpet.  They  tumble  into  my  vest,  into  my  sleeves. 
I  am  all  perfumed  with  them. 

"  Therese  !  Therese !  fill  me  some  vases  with  water, 
and  bring  them  here,  quick !  Here  are  violets  sent  to 
us  I  know  not  from  what  country  nor  by  what  hand ; 
but  it  must  be  from  a  perfumed  country,  and  by  a  very 
gracious  hand.  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  me,  old  crow  ?" 

I  have  put  all  the  violets  on  my  table — now  com- 
pletely covered  by  the  odorous  mass.  But  there  is 
still  something  in  the  log  ...  a  book — a  manuscript. 
It  is  ...  I  cannot  believe  it,  and  yet  I  cannot  doubt  it. 
...  It  is  the  "  Legende  Doree  " ! — it  is  the  manuscript 
of  the  Clerk  Alexander !  Here  is  the  "  Purification  of 
the  Virgin  "  and  the  "  Coronation  of  Proserpine ;" — 
here  is  the  legend  of  Saint  Droctoveus.  I  contemplate 


TUB  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.          77 

this  violet-perfumed  relic.  I  turn  the  leaves  of  it — 
between  which  the  dark  rich  blossoms  have  slipped 
in  here  and  there;  and,  right  opposite  the  legend 
of  Saint-Cecilia,  I  find  a  card  bearing  this  name : 

"Princess  Trepof" 

Princess  Trepof! — you  who  laughed  and  wept  by 
turns  so  sweetly  under  the  fair  sky  of  Agrigentum  !— 
you,  whom  a  cross  old  man  believed  to  be  only  a 
foolish  little  woman ! — to-day  I  am  convinced  of  your 
rare  and  beautiful  folly;  and  the  old  fellow  whom 
you  now  overwhelm  with  happiness  will  go  to  kiss 
your  hand,  and  give  you  back,  in  another  form,  this 
precious  manuscript,  of  which  both  he  and  science 
owe  you  an  exact  and  sumptuous  publication ! 

Therese  entered  my  study  just  at  that  moment ; 
she  seemed  to  be  very  much  excited. 

"Monsieur!"  she  cried,  "guess  whom  I  saw  just 
now  in  a  carriage,  with  a  coat-of-arms  painted  on  it, 
that  was  stopping  before  the  door  ?" 

"  Parbleu  ! — Madame  Trepof,"  I  exclaimed. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  any  Madame  Tre- 
pof," answered  my  housekeeper.  "The  woman  I 
saw  just  now  was  dressed  like  a  duchess,  and  had  a 
little  boy  with  her,  with  lace-frills  all  along  the  seams 
of  his  clothes.  And  it  was  that  same  little  Madame 
Coccoz  you  once  sent  a  log  to,  when  she  was  confined 
here  about  eleven  years  ago.  I  recognized  her  at  once," 


78  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"What!"  I  exclaimed,  "you  mean  to  say  it  was 
Madame  Coccoz,  the  widow  of  the  almanac-peddler?" 

"  Herself,  Monsieur  !  The  carriage-door  was  open 
for  a  minute  to  let  her  little  boy,  who  had  just  come 
from  I  don't  know  where,  get  in.  She  hasn't  changed 
scarcely  at  all.  "Well,  why  should  those  women 
change  ?  —  they  never  worry  themselves  about  any- 
thing. Only  the  Coccoz  woman  looks  a  little  fatter 
than  she  used  to  be.  And  the  idea  of  a  woman  that 
was  taken  in  here  out  of  pure  charity  coming  to  show 
off  her  velvets  and  diamonds  in  a  carriage  with  a  crest 
painted  on  it !  Isn't  it  shameful !" 

"  Therese !"  I  cried,  in  a  terrible  voice,  "  if  you 
ever  speak  to  me  again  about  that  lady  except  in 
terms  of  the  deepest  respect,  you  and  I  will  fall  out ! 
.  .  .  Bring  me  the  Sevres  vases  to  put  those  violets  in, 
which  now  give  the  City  of  Books  a  charm  it  never 
had  before." 

"While  Therese  went  off  with  a  sigh  to  get  the 
Sevres  vases,  I  continued  to  contemplate  those  beauti- 
ful scattered  violets,  whose  odor  spread  all  about  me 
like  the  perfume  of  some  sweet  presence,  some 
charming  soul ;  and  I  asked  myself  how  it  had  been 
possible  for  me  never  to  recognize  Madame  Coccoz  in 
the  person  of  the  Princess  Trepof.  But  that  vision 
of  the  young  widow,  showing  me  her  little  child  on 
the  stairs,  had  been  a  very  rapid  one.  I  had  much 
more  reason  to  reproach  myself  for  having  passed  by 
a  gracious  and  lovely  soul  without  knowing  it. 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.  Y9 

"Bonnard,"  I  said  to  myself,  "thou  knowest  how 
to  decipher  old  texts ;  but  thou  dost  not  know  how  to 
read  in  the  Book  of  Life.  That  giddy  little  Madame 
Trepof,  whom  thou  once  believed  to  possess  no  more 
soul  than  a  bird,  has  expended,  in  pure  gratitude, 
more  zeal  and  finer  tact  than  thou  didst  ever  show  for 
anybody's  sake.  Eight  royally  hath  she  repaid  thee 
for  the  log-fire  of  her  churching-day ! 

"  Therese !  Awhile  ago  you  were  a  magpie ;  now 
you  are  becoming  a  tortoise !  Come  and  give  some 
water  to  these  Parmese  violets." 


f  f .— THE  DAUGHTER  OF  CLEMENTINE. 


I. 

THE  FAIRY. 

WHEN  I  left  the  train  at  the  Melun  station,  night 
had  already  spread  its  peace  over  the  silent  country. 
The  soil,  heated  through  all  the  long  day  by  a  strong 
sun — by  a  " gros  soleil"  as  the  harvesters  of  the  Val 
de  Yire  say — still  exhaled  a  warm  heavy  smell.  Lush 
dense  odors  of  grass  passed  over  the  level  of  the  fields. 
I  brushed  away  the  dust  of  the  railroad  car,  and  joy- 
fully inhaled  the  pure  air.  My  travelling-bag — filled 
by  my  housekeeper  with  linen  and  various  small  toilet 
articles,  munditis,  seemed  so  light  in  my  hand  that  I 
swung  it  about  just  as  a  schoolboy  swings  his  strapped 
package  of  rudimentary  books  when  the  class  is  let 
out. 

"Would  to  Heaven  that  I  were  again  a  little  urchin 
at  school  1  But  it  is  fully  fifty  years  since  my  good 
dead  mother  made  me  some  tartines  of  bread  and 
preserves,  and  placed  them  in  a  basket  of  which  she 
slipped  the  handle  over  my  arm,  and  then  led  me, 
thus  prepared,  to  the  school  kept  by  Monsieur  Douloir, 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.          81 

at  a  corner  of  the  Passage  du  Commerce  well  known 
to  the  sparrows,  between  a  court  and  a  garden.  The 
enormous  Monsieur  Douloir  smiled  upon  us  genially, 
and  patted  my  cheek  to  show,  no  doubt,  the  affection- 
ate interest  which  my  first  appearance  had  inspired. 
But  when  my  mother  had  passed  out  of  the  court, 
startling  the  sparrows  as  she  went,  Monsieur  Douloir 
ceased  to  smile — he  showed  no  more  affectionate  in- 
terest ;  he  appeared,  on  the  contrary,  to  consider  me  as 
a  very  troublesome  little  fellow.  I  discovered,  later 
on,  that  he  entertained  the  same  feelings  towards  all 
his  pupils.  He  distributed  whacks  of  his  ferule  with 
an  agility  no  one  could  have  expected  on  the  part  of 
so  corpulent  a  person.  But  his  first  aspect  of  ten- 
der interest  invariably  reappeared  when  he  spoke  to 
any  of  our  mothers  in  our  presence ;  and  always  at 
such  times,  while  warmly  praising  our  remarkable 
aptitudes,  he  would  cast  down  upon  us  a  look  of  in- 
tense affection.  Still,  those  were  happy  days  which  I 
passed  on  the  benches  of  Monsieur  Douloir  with  my 
little  playfellows,  who,  like  myself,  cried  and  laughed  by 
turns  with  all  their  might,  from  morning  till  evening. 
After  a  whole  half-century  these  souvenirs  float  up 
again,  fresh  and  bright  as  ever,  to  the  surface  of 
memory,  under  this  starry  sky,  whose  face  has  in  no 
wise  changed  since  then,  and  whose  serene  and  im- 
mutable lights  will  doubtless  see  many  other  school- 
boys such  as  I  was  slowly  turn  into  gray -headed 
savants,  afflicted  with  catarrh^ 
6 


82  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

Stars,  who  have  shone  down  upon  each  wise  or  fool- 
ish head  among  all  my  forgotten  ancestors,  it  is  under 
your  soft  light  that  I  now  feel  stir  within  me  a  certain 
poignant  regret !  I  would  that  I  could  have  a  son 
who  might  be  able  to  see  you  when  I  shall  see  you  no 
more.  How  I  should  love  him !  Ah !  such  a  son 
would — what  am  I  saying  ? — why,  he  would  be  now 
just  twenty  years  old  if  you  had  only  been  willing, 
Clementine — you  whose  cheeks  used  to  look  so  ruddy 
under  your  pink  hood !  But  you  married  that  young 
bank  clerk,  Noel  Alexandre,  who  made  so  many  mill- 
ions afterwards !  I  never  met  you  again  after  your 
marriage,  Clementine,  but  I  can  see  you  now,  with  your 
bright  curls  and  your  pink  hood. 

A  looking-glass !  a  looking-glass !  a  looking-glass ! 
Keally,  I  would  be  curious  to  see  what  I  look  like  now, 
with  my  white  hair,  sighing  Clementine's  name  to  the 
stars !  Still,  it  is  not  right  to  end  with  sterile  irony 
the  thought  begun  in  the  spirit  of  faith  and  love.  No, 
Clementine,  if  your  name  came  to  my  lips  by  chance 
this  beautiful  night,  be  it  forever  blessed,  your  dear 
name !  and  may  you  ever,  as  a  happy  mother,  a  happy 
grandmother,  enjoy  to  the  very  end  of  life  with  your 
rich  husband  the  utmost  degree  of  that  happiness 
which  you  had  the  right  to  believe  you  could  not  win 
with  the  poor  young  scholar  who  loved  you!  If — 
though  I  cannot  even  now  imagine  it — if  your  beauti- 
ful hair  has  become  white,  Clementine,  bear  worthily 
the  bundle  of  keys  confided  to  you  by  Noel  Alex- 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.  83 

andre.  and  impart  to  your  grandchildren  the  knowl- 
edge of  all  domestic  virtues ! 

The  beautiful  Night !  She  rules,  with  such  noble 
repose,  over  men  and  animals  alike,  kindly  loosed  by 
her  from  the  yoke  of  daily  toil ;  and  even  I  feel  her 
beneficent  influence,  although  my  habits  of  sixty  years 
have  so  changed  me  that  I  can  feel  most  things  only 
through  the  signs  which  represent  them.  My  world 
is  wholly  formed  of  words — so  much  of  a  philologist 
I  have  become !  Each  one  dreams  the  dream  of  life 
in  his  own  way.  I  have  dreamed  it  in  my  library ;  and 
when  the  hour  shall  come  in  which  I  must  leave  this 
world,  may  it  please  God  to  take  me  from  my  ladder 
— from  before  my  shelves  of  books !  .  .  . 

"  Well,  well !  it  is  really  himself,  pardieu !  How 
are  you,  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard  ?  And  where 
have  you  been  travelling  to  all  this  time,  over  the 
country,  while  I  was  waiting  for  you  at  the  station 
with  my  cabriolet  ?  You  escaped  me  when  the  train 
came  in,  and  I  was  driving  back,  quite  disappointed,  to 
Lusance.  Give  me  your  valise,  and  get  up  here  be- 
side me  in  the  carriage.  Why,  do  you  know  it  is  fully 
seven  kilometres  from  here  to  the  chateau  ?" 

Who  addresses  me  thus,  at  the  very  top  of  his  voice, 
from  the  height  of  his  cabriolet?  Monsieur  Paul  de 
Gabry,  nephew  and  heir  of  Monsieur  Honore  de  Ga- 
bry,  peer  of  France  in  1842,  who  recently  died  at 
Monaco.  And  it  was  precisely  to  Monsieur  Paul  de 
Gabry's  house  that  I  was  going  with  that  valise  of 


84  THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

mine,  so  carefully  strapped  by  my  housekeeper.  This 
excellent  young  man  has  just  inherited,  conjointly  with 
his  two  brothers-in-law,  the  property  of  his  uncle,  who, 
belonging  to  a  very  ancient  family  of  distinguished 
lawyers,  had  accumulated  in  his  chateau  at  Lusance  a 
library  rich  in  HSS.,  some  dating  back  to  the  four- 
teenth century.  It  was  for  the  purpose  of  making  an 
inventory  and  a  catalogue  of  these  MSS.  that  I  had 
come  to  Lusance  at  the  urgent  request  of  Monsieur 
Paul  de  Gabry,  whose  father,  a  perfect  gentleman  and 
distinguished  bibliophile,  had  maintained  the  most 
pleasant  relations  with  me  during  his  lifetime.  To 
tell  the  truth,  Monsieur  Paul  has  not  inherited  the  fine 
tastes  of  his  father.  Monsieur  Paul  likes  sporting  ;  he 
is  a  great  authority  on  horses  and  dogs ;  and  I  much 
fear  that  of  all  the  sciences  capable  of  satisfying  or  of 
duping  the  inexhaustible  curiosity  of  mankind,  those 
of  the  stable  and  the  dog-kennel  are  the  only  ones 
thoroughly  mastered  by  him. 

I  cannot  say  I  was  surprised  to  meet  him,  since  we 
had  made  a  rendezvous ;  but  I  acknowledge  that  I 
had  become  so  preoccupied  with  my  own  thoughts 
that  I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  Chateau  de  Lusance 
and  its  inhabitants,  and  that  the  voice  of  the  gen- 
tleman calling  out  to  me  as  I  started  to  follow  the 
country  road  winding  away  before  me — "un  bon  ru- 
ban  de  queue,"  as  they  say — had  given  me  quite  a 
start. 

I  fear  my  face  must  have  betrayed  my  incongruous 


THE  CRIME  OF  SILVESTRE  BONNARD.  85 

distraction  by  a  certain  stupid  expression  which  it  is 
apt  to  assume  in  most  of  my  social  transactions.  My 
valise  was  pulled  up  into  the  carriage,  and  I  followed 
my  valise.  My  host  pleased  me  by  his  straightfor- 
ward simplicity. 

"I  don't  know  anything  myself  about  your  old 
parchments,"  he  said;  "but  I  think  you  will  find 
some  folks  to  talk  to  at  the  house.  Besides  the  cure, 
who  writes  books  himself,  and  the  doctor,  who  is  a 
very  good  fellow — although  a  radical — you  will  meet 
somebody  able  to  keep  you  company.  I  mean  my 
wife.  She  is  not  a  very  learned  woman,  but  there 
are  few  things  which  she  can't  divine  pretty  well. 
Then  I  count  upon  being  able  to  keep  you  with  us 
long  enough  to  make  you  acquainted  with  Mademoi- 
selle Jeanne,  who  has  the  fingers  of  a  magician  and 
the  soul  of  an  angel." 

"  And  is  this  delightfully  gifted  young  lady  one  of 
your  family  3"  I  asked. 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Monsieur  Paul. 

"  Then  she  is  just  a  friend  of  yours  ?"  I  persisted, 
rather  stupidly. 

"She  has  lost  both  her  father  and  mother,"  an- 
swered Monsieur  de  Gabry,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  ears  of  his  horse,  whose  hoofs  rang  loudly 
over  the  road  blue-tinted  by  the  moonshine.  "Her 
father  managed  to  get  us  into  some  very  serious 
trouble ;  and  we  did  not  get  off  with  a  fright  either !" 

Then  he  shook  his  head,  and  changed  the  subject. 


86  THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

He  gave  me  due  warning  of  the  ruinous  condition  in 
which  I  would  find  the  chateau  and  the  park;  they 
had  been  absolutely  deserted  for  thirty-two  years. 

I  learned  from  him  that  Monsieur  Honore  de  Ga- 
bry,  his  uncle,  had  been  on  very  bad  terms  with  some 
poachers,  whom  he  used  to  shoot  at  like  rabbits.  One 
of  them,  a  vindictive  peasant,  who  had  received  a 
whole  charge  of  shot  in  his  face,  lay  in  wait  for  the 
Seigneur  one  evening  behind  the  trees  of  the  mall, 
and  very  nearly  succeeded  in  killing  him,  for  the  ball 
took  off  the  tip  of  his  ear. 

"My  uncle,"  Monsieur  Paul  continued,  "tried  to 
discover  who  had  fired  the  shot ;  but  he  could  not  see 
any  one,  and  he  walked  back  slowly  to  the  house. 
The  day  after  he  called  his  steward,  and  ordered  him 
to  close  up  the  manor  and  the  park,  and  allow  no 
living  soul  to  enter.  He  expressly  forbade  that  any- 
thing should  be  touched,  or  looked  after,  or  any  rep- 
arations made  on  the  estate  during  his  absence.  He 
added,  between  his  teeth,  that  he  would  return  at 
Easter,  or  Trinity  Sunday,  as  they  say  in  the  song ; 
and,  just  as  the  song  has  it,  Trinity  Sunday  passed 
without  a  sign  of  him.  He  died  last  year  at  Monaco ; 
my  brother-in-law  and  myself  were  the  first  to  enter 
the  chateau  after  it  had  been  abandoned  for  thirty- 
two  years.  We  found  a  chestnut-tree  growing  in  the 
middle  of  the  parlor.  As  for  the  park,  it  was  useless 
trying  to  visit  it,  because  there  were  no  more  paths, 
no  alleys." 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.          87 

My  companion  ceased  to  speak ;  and  only  the  regu- 
lar hoof-beat  of  the  trotting  horse,  and  the  chirping 
of  insects  in  the  grass,  broke  the  silence.  On  either 
hand,  the  sheaves  standing  in  the  fields  took,  in  the 
vague  moonlight,  the  appearance  of  tall  white  women 
kneeling  down;  and  I  abandoned  myself  awhile  to 
those  wonderful  childish  fancies  which  the  charm  of 
night  always  suggests.  After  driving  under  the  heavy 
shadows  of  the  mall,  we  turned  to  the  right  and  rolled 
up  a  lordly  avenue,  at  the  end  of  which  the  chateau 
suddenly  rose  into  view — a  black  mass,  with  turrets 
en  poivriere.  "We  followed  a  sort  of  causeway,  which 
gave  access  to  the  court-of -honor,  and  which,  passing 
over  a  moat  full  of  running  water,  doubtless  replaced 
a  long-vanished  drawbridge.  The  loss  of  that  draw- 
bridge must  have  been,  I  think,  the  first  of  various  hu- 
miliations to  which  the  warlike  manor  had  been  sub- 
jected ere  being  reduced  to  that  pacific  aspect  with 
which  it  received  me.  The  stars  reflected  themselves 
with  marvellous  clearness  in  the  dark  water.  Mon- 
sieur Paul,  like  a  courteous  host,  escorted  me  to  my 
chamber  in  the  very  top  of  the  building,  at  the  end 
of  a  long  corridor ;  and  then,  excusing  himself  for  not 
presenting  me  at  once  to  his  wife  by  reason  of  the 
lateness  of  the  hour,  bade  me  good-night. 

My  apartment,  painted  in  white,  and  hung  with 
chintz,  seemed  to  keep  some  traces  of  the  elegant 
gallantry  of  the  eighteenth  century.  A  heap  of  still- 
glowing  ashes — which  testified  to  the  pains  taken  to 


88  THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

dispel  humidity  —  filled  the  fireplace,  whose  marble 
mantelpiece  supported  a  bust  of  Marie  Antoinette 
in  biscuit.  Attached  to  the  frame  of  the  tarnished 
and  discolored  mirror,  two  brass  hooks,  that  had  once 
doubtless  served  the  ladies  of  old-fashioned  days  to 
hang  their  chatelaines  on,  seemed  to  offer  a  very 
opportune  means  of  suspending  my  watch,  which  I 
took  care  to  wind  up  beforehand ;  for,  contrary  to  the 
opinion  of  the  Thelemites,  I  hold  that  man  is  only 
master  of  time,  which  is  Life  itself,  when  he  has 
divided  it  into  hours,  minutes,  and  seconds — that  is 
to  say,  into  parts  proportioned  to  the  brevity  of  hu- 
man existence. 

And  I  thought  to  myself  that  life  really  seems 
short  to  us  only  because  we  measure  it  irrationally  by 
our  own  mad  hopes.  We  have  all  of  us,  like  the  old 
man  in  the  fable,  a  new  wing  to  add  to  our  building. 
I  want,  for  example,  before  I  die,  to  finish  my  "  History 
of  the  Abbots  of  Saint-Germain-des-Pres."  The  time 
God  allots  to  each  one  of  us  is  like  a  precious  tissue 
which  we  embroider  as  we  best  know  how.  I  had 
begun  my  woof  with  all  sorts  of  philological  illustra- 
tions. ...  So  my  thoughts  wandered  on ;  and  at  last, 
as  I  bound  my  foulard  about  my  head,  the  notion  of 
Time  led  me  back  to  the  past;  and  for  the  second 
time  within  the  same  round  of  the  dial  I  thought  of 
you,  Clementine — to  bless  you  again  in  your  pos- 
terity, if  you  have  any,  before  blowing  out  my  candle 
and  falling  asleep  amidst  the  chanting  of  the  frogs. 


TUB  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          89 

n. 

DURING  breakfast  I  had  many  opportunities  to  ap- 
preciate the  good  taste,  tact,  and  intelligence  of  Ma- 
dame de  Gabry,  who  told  me  that  the  chateau  had 
its  ghosts,  and  was  especially  haunted  by  the  "  Lady- 
with-three-wrinkles-in-her-back,"  a  poisoner  during 
her  lifetime,  and  thereafter  a  Soul-in-pain.  I  could 
never  describe  how  much  wit  and  animation  she  gave 
to  this  old  nurse's  tale.  "We  took  our  coffee  on  the 
terrace,  whose  balusters,  clasped  and  forcibly  torn 
away  from  their  stone  coping  by  a  vigorous  growth  of 
ivy,  remained  suspended  in  the  grasp  of  the  amorous 
plant  like  bewildered  Athenian  women  in  the  arms 
of  ravishing  Centaurs. 

The  chateau,  shaped  something  like  a  four-wheeled 
wagon,  with  a  turret  at  each  of  the  four  angles,  had 
lost  all  original  character  by  reason  of  repeated  re- 
modellings.  It  was  merely  a  fine  spacious  building, 
nothing  more.  It  did  not  appear  to  me  to  have  suf- 
fered much  damage  during  its  abandonment  of  thirty- 
two  years.  But  when  Madame  de  Gabry  conducted 
me  into  the  great  salon  of  the  ground-floor,  I  saw  that 
the  planking  was  bulged  in  and  out,  the  plinths  rotten, 
the  wainscotings  split  apart,  the  paintings  of  the  piers 
turned  black  and  hanging  more  than  half  out  of  their 
settings.  A  chestnut-tree,  after  forcing  up  the  planks 
of  the  floor,  had  grown  tall  under  the  ceiling,  and  was 
reaching  out  its  large-leaved  branches  towards  the 
glassless  windows. 


90  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

This  spectacle  was  not  devoid  of  charm;  but  I 
could  not  look  at  it  without  anxiety,  as  I  remembered 
that  the  rich  library  of  Monsieur  Honore  de  Gabry, 
in  an  adjoining  apartment,  must  have  been  exposed 
for  the  same  length  of  time  to  the  same  forces  of  de- 
cay. Yet,  as  I  looked  at  the  young  chestnut-tree  in 
the  salon,  I  could  not  but  admire  the  magnificent  vigor 
of  Nature,  and  that  resistless  power  which  forces  every 
germ  to  develop  into  life.  On  the  other  hand  I  felt 
saddened  to  think  that,  whatever  effort  we  scholars 
may  make  to  preserve  dead  things  from  passing  away, 
we  are  laboring  painfully  in  vain.  Whatever  has 
lived  becomes  the  necessary  food  of  new  existences. 
And  the  Arab  who  builds  himself  a  hut  out  of  the 
marble  fragments  of  a  Palmyra  temple  is  really  more 
of  a  philosopher  than  all  the  guardians  of  museums  at 
London,  Munich,  or  Paris. 


August  11. 

ALL  day  long  I  have  been  classifying  MSS.  .  .  .  The 
sun  came  in  through  the  lofty  uncurtained  windows ; 
and,  during  my  reading,  often  very  interesting,  I  could 
hear  the  languid  bumble-bees  bump  heavily  against 
the  windows,  and  the  flies,  intoxicated  with  light  and 
heat,  making  their  wings  hum  in  circles  round  my 
head.  So  loud  became  their  humming  about  three 
o'clock  that  I  looked  up  from  the  document  I  was 
reading — a  document  containing  very  precious  mate- 


TUB  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  SONNARD.          91 

rials  for  the  history  of  Melun  in  the  thirteenth  centu- 
ry— to  watch  the  concentric  movements  of  those 
tiny  creatures.  "J?estions"  Lafontaine  calls  them:  he 
found  this  form  of  the  word  in  the  old  popular  speech, 
whence  also  the  term,  tapisserie-d-bestions,  applied  to 
figured  tapestry.  I  was  compelled  to  confess  that 
the  effect  of  heat  upon  the  wings  of  a  fly  is  totally 
different  from  that  it  exerts  upon  the  brain  of  a  pale- 
ographical  archivist;  for  I  found  it  very  difficult  to 
think,  and  a  rather  pleasant  languor  weighing  upon 
me,  from  which  I  could  rouse  myself  only  by  a  very 
determined  effort.  The  dinner-bell  then  startled  me 
in  the  midst  of  my  labors ;  and  I  had  barely  time  to 
put  on  my  new  dress-coat,  so  as  to  make  a  respectable 
appearance  before  Madame  de  Gabry. 

The  repast,  generously  served,  seemed  to  prolong  it- 
self for  my  benefit.  I  am  more  than  a  fair  judge  of 
wine ;  and  my  hostess,  who  discovered  my  knowledge 
in  this  regard,  was  friendly  enough  to  open  a  certain 
bottle  of  Chdteau-Margaux  in  my  honor.  With  deep 
respect  I  drank  of  this  famous  and  knightly  old  wine, 
which  comes  from  the  slopes  of  Bordeaux,  and  of 
which  the  flavor  and  exhilarating  power  are  beyond 
all  praise.  The  ardor  of  it  spread  gently  through  my 
veins,  and  filled  me  with  an  almost  juvenile  animation. 
Seated  beside  Madame  de  Gabry  on  the  terrace,  un- 
der the  gloaming  which  gave  a  charming  melancholy 
to  the  park,  and  lent  to  every  object  an  air  of  mys- 
tery, I  took  pleasure  in  communicating  my  impres- 


92 

sions  of  the  scene  to  my  hostess.  I  discoursed  with 
a  vivacity  quite  remarkable  on  the  part  of  a  man 
so  devoid  of  imagination  as  I  am.  I  described  to  her 
spontaneously,  without  quoting  from  any  old  texts, 
the  caressing  melancholy  of  the  evening,  and  the  beau- 
ty of  that  natal  earth  which  feeds  us,  not  only  with 
bread  and  wine,  but  also  with  ideas,  sentiments,  beliefs, 
and  which  will  at  last  take  us  all  back  to  her  mater- 
nal breast  again,  like  so  many  tired  little  children  at 
the  close  of  a  long  day. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  kind  lady, "  you  see  these  old 
towers,  those  trees,  that  sky ;  is  it  not  quite  natural 
that  the  personages  of  the  popular  tales  and  folk- 
songs should  have  been  evoked  by  such  scenes  ?  Why, 
over  there  is  the  very  path  which  Little  Red  Elding- 
hood  followed  when  she  went  to  the  woods  to  pick 
nuts.  Across  this  changeful  and  always  vapory  sky 
the  fairy  chariots  used  to  roll ;  and  the  north  tower 
might  have  sheltered  under  its  pointed  roof  that  same 
old  spinning  woman  whose  distaff  pricked  the  Sleep- 
ing Beauty  in  the  Wood." 

I  continued  to  muse  upon  her  pretty  fancies,  while 
Monsieur  Paul  related  to  me,  as  he  puffed  a  very 
strong  cigar,  the  history  of  some  suit  he  had  brought 
against  the  commune  about  a  water-right.  Madame 
de  Gabry,  feeling  the  chill  night-air,  began  to  shiver 
under  the  shawl  her  husband  had  wrapped  about  her, 
and  left  us  to  go  to  her  room.  I  then  decided,  instead 
of  going  to  my  own,  to  return  to  the  library  and  con- 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          93 

tinue  my  examination  of  the  manuscripts.  In  spite 
of  the  protests  of  Monsieur  Paul,  I  entered  what  I 
may  call,  in  old-fashioned  phrase,  "the  book-room," 
and  started  to  work  by  the  light  of  a  lamp. 

After  having  read  fifteen  pages,  evidently  written 
by  some  ignorant  and  careless  scribe,  for  I  could 
scarcely  discern  their  meaning,  I  plunged  my  hand 
into  the  pocket  of  my  coat  to  get  my  snuff-box ;  but 
this  movement,  usually  so  natural  and  almost  instinc- 
tive, this  time  cost  me  some  effort  and  even  fatigue. 
Nevertheless,  I  got  out  the  silver  box,  and  took  from  it 
a  pinch  of  the  odorous  powder,  which,  somehow  or 
other,  I  managed  to  spill  all  over  my  shirt-bosom  un- 
der my  baffled  nose.  I  am  sure  my  nose  must  have 
expressed  its  disappointment,  for  it  is  a  very  expres- 
sive nose.  More  than  once  it  betrayed  my  secret 
thoughts,  and  especially  upon  a  certain  occasion  at 
the  public  library  of  Coutances,  where  I  discovered, 
right  in  front  of  my  colleague  Brioux,  the  "  Cartulary 
of  Notre-Dame-des-Anges." 

What  a  delight !  My  little  eyes  remained  as  dull 
and  expressionless  as  ever  behind  my  spectacles.  But 
at  the  mere  sight  of  my  thick  pug-nose,  which  quiver- 
ed with  joy  and  pride,  Brioux  knew  that  I  had  found 
something.  He  noted  the  volume  I  was  looking  at, 
observed  the  place  where  I  put  it  back,  pounced  upon 
it  as  soon  as  I  turned  my  back,  copied  it  secretly,  and 
published  it  in  haste,  for  the  sake  of  playing  me  a 
trick.  But  his  edition  swarms  with  errors,  and  I  had 


94  THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

the  satisfaction  of  afterwards  criticising  some  of  the 
gross  blunders  he  made. 

But  to  come  back  to  the  point  at  which  I  left  off : 
I  began  to  suspect  that  I  was  getting  very  sleepy  in- 
deed. I  was  looking  at  a  chart  of  which  the  interest 
may  be  divined  from  the  fact  that  it  contained  men- 
tion of  a  hutch  sold  to  Jehan  d'Estonville,  priest,  in 
1312.  But  although,  even  then,  I  could  recognize  the 
importance  of  the  document,  I  did  not  give  it  that 
attention  it  so  strongly  invited.  My  eyes  would  keep 
turning,  against  my  will,  towards  a  certain  corner 
of  the  table  where  there  was  nothing  whatever  inter- 
esting to  a  learned  mind.  There  was  only  a  big 
German  book  there,  bound  in  pigskin,  with  brass  studs 
on  the  sides,  and  very  thick  cording  upon  the  back. 
It  was  a  fine  copy  of  a  compilation  which  has  little 
to  recommend 'it  except  the  wood  engravings  it  con- 
tains, and  which  is  well  known  as  the  "  Cosmog- 
raphy of  Munster."  This  volume,  with  its  covers 
slightly  open,  was  placed  upon  edge,  with  the  back 
upwards. 

I  could  not  say  for  how  long  I  had  been  staring 
causelessly  at  the  sixteenth-century  folio,  when  my  eyes 
were  captivated  by  a  sight  so  extraordinary  that  even 
a  person  as  devoid  of  imagination  as  I  could  not  but 
have  been  greatly  astonished  by  it. 

I  perceived,  all  of  a  sudden,  without  having  noticed 
her  coming  into  the  room,  a  little  creature  seated  on 
the  back  of  the  book,  with  one  knee  bent  and  one  leg 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          95 

hanging  down — somewhat  in  the  attitude  of  the  ama- 
zons  of  Hyde  Park  or  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  on  horse- 
back. She  was  so  small  that  her  swinging  foot  did 
not  reach  the  table,  over  which  the  trail  of  her  dress 
extended  in  a  serpentine  line.  But  her  face  and  fig- 
ure were  those  of  an  adult.  The  fulness  of  her  cor- 
sage and  the  roundness  of  her  waist  could  leave  no 
doubt  of  that,  even  for  an  old  savant  like  myself.  I 
will  venture  to  add  that  she  was  very  handsome,  with 
a  proud  mien ;  for  my  iconographic  studies  have  long 
accustomed  me  to  recognize  at  once  the  perfection  of 
a  type  and  the  character  of  a  physiognomy.  The 
countenance  of  this  lady  who  had  seated  herself  in- 
opportunely on  the  back  of  a  "  Cosmography  of  Mun- 
ster"  expressed  a  mingling  of  haughtiness  and  mis- 
chievousness.  She  had  the  air  of  a  queen,  but  a 
capricious  queen;  and  I  judged,  from  the  mere  ex- 
pression of  her  eyes,  that  she  was  accustomed  to 
wield  great  authority  somewhere,  in  a  very  whimsical 
manner.  Her  mouth  was  imperious  and  mocking,  and 
those  blue  eyes  of  hers  seemed  to  laugh  in  a  disquiet- 
ing way  under  her  finely  arched  black  eyebrows.  I 
have  always  heard  that  black  eyebrows  are  very  be- 
coming to  blondes ;  and  this  lady  was  very  blonde. 
On  the  whole,  the  impression  she  gave  me  was  one 
of  greatness. 

It  may  seem  odd  to  say  that  a  person  who  was  no  taller 
than  a  wine-bottle,  and  who  might  have  been  hidden 
in  my  coat  pocket — but  that  it  would  have  been  very 


96          THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

disrespectful  to  put  her  in  it — gave  me  precisely  an 
idea  of  greatness.  But  in  the  fine  proportions  of  the 
lady  seated  upon  the  "  Cosmography  of  Munster  "  there 
was  such  a  proud  elegance,  such  a  harmonious  majesty, 
and  she  maintained  an  attitude  at  once  so  easy  and 
so  noble,  that  she  really  seemed  to  me  a  very  great 
person.  Although  my  ink-bottle,  which  she  examined 
with  an  expression  of  such  mockery  as  appeared  to 
indicate  that  she  knew  in  advance  every  word  that 
could  ever  come  out  of  it  at  the  end  of  my  pen,  was 
for  her  a  deep  basin  in  which  she  would  have  black- 
ened her  gold-clocked  pink  stockings  up  to  the  garter, 
I  can  assure  you  that  she  was  great,  and  imposing 
even  in  her  sprightliness. 

Her  costume,  worthy  of  her  face,  was  extremely 
magnificent ;  it  consisted  of  a  robe  of  gold-and-silver 
brocade,  and  a  mantle  of  nacarat  velvet,  lined  with 
vair.  Her  head-dress  was  a  sort  of  hcnnm,  with  t\vo 
high  points ;  and  pearls  of  splendid  lustre  made  it 
bright  and  luminous  as  a  crescent  moon.  Her  little 
white  hand  held  a  wand.  That  wand  drew  my  at- 
tention very  strongly,  because  my  archaeological  stud- 
ies had  taught  me  to  recognize  with  certainty  every 
sign  by  which  the  notable  personages  of  legend  and 
of  history  are  distinguished.  This  knowledge  came 
to  my  aid  during  various  very  queer  conjectures  with 
which  I  was  laboring.  I  examined  the  wand,  and 
saw  that  it  appeared  to  have  been  cut  from  a  branch 
of  hazeL 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         97 

"  Then  it  is  a  fairy's  -wand,"  I  said  to  myself ; — u  con- 
sequently the  lady  who  carries  it  is  a  fairy." 

Happy  at  thus  discovering  what  sort  of  a  person 
was  before  me,  I  tried  to  collect  my  mind  sufficiently 
to  make  her  a  graceful  compliment.  It  would  have 
given  me  much  satisfaction,  I  confess,  if  I  could  have 
talked  to  her  about  the  part  taken  by  her  people,  not 
less  in  the  life  of  the  Saxon  and  Germanic  races,  than 
in  that  of  the  Latin  Occident.  Such  a  dissertation, 
it  appeared  to  me,  would  have  been  an  ingenious 
method  of  thanking  the  lady  for  having  thus  ap- 
peared to  an  old  scholar,  contrary  to  the  invariable 
custom  of  her  kindred,  who  never  show  themselves 
but  to  innocent  children  or  ignorant  village-folk. 

Because  one  happens  to  be  a  fairy,  one  is  none  the 
less  a  woman,  I  said  to  myself ;  and  since  Madame 
Recamier,  according  to  what  I  heard  J.  J.  Ampere 
say,  used  to  blush  with  pleasure  when  the  little  chim- 
ney-sweeps opened  their  eyes  as  wide  as  they  could 
to  look  at  her,  surely  the  supernatural  lady  seated 
upon  the  "  Cosmography  of  Munster  "  might  feel  flat- 
tered to  hear  an  erudite  man  discourse  learnedly  about 
her,  as  about  a  medal,  a  seal,  a  fibula,  or  a  token.  But 
such  an  undertaking,  which  would  have  cost  my  timid- 
ity a  great  deal,  became  totally  out  of  the  question 
when  I  observed  the  Lady  of  the  Cosmography  sud- 
denly take  from  an  alms-purse  hanging  at  her  girdle 
the  very  smallest  nuts  I  had  ever  seen,  crack  the 
shells  between  her  teeth,  and  throw  them  at  my  nose, 
7 


98  THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

while  she  nibbled  the  kernels  with  the  gravity  of  a 
suckling  child. 

At  this  conjuncture,  I  did  what  the  dignity  of  science 
demanded  of  me — I  remained  silent.  But  the  nut- 
shells caused  such  a  painful  tickling  that  I  put  up  my 
hand  to  my  nose,  and  found,  to  my  great  surprise,  that 
my  spectacles  were  straddling  the  very  end  of  it — so 
that  I  was  actually  looking  at  the  lady,  not  through 
my  spectacles,  but  over  them.  This  was  incompre- 
hensible, because  my  eyes,  worn  out  over  old  texts, 
cannot  ordinarily  distinguish  anything  without  glasses 
— could  not  tell  a  melon  from  a  decanter,  though  the 
two  were  placed  close  up  to  my  nose. 

That  nose  of  mine,  remarkable  for  its  size,  its  shape, 
and  its  coloration,  legitimately  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  fairy ;  for  she  seized  my  goose-quill  pen,  which 
was  sticking  up  from  the  ink-bottle  like  a  plume,  and 
she  began  to  pass  the  feather-end  of  that  pen  over  my 
nose.  I  had  had  more  than  once,  in  company,  occasion 
to  suffer  cheerfully  from  the  innocent  mischief  of 
young  ladies,  who  made  me  join  their  games,  and 
would  offer  me  their  cheeks  to  kiss  through  the  back 
of  a  chair,  or  invite  me  to  blow  out  a  candle  which 
they  would  lift  suddenly  above  the  range  of  my  breath. 
But  until  that  moment  no  person  of  the  fair  sex  had 
ever  subjected  me  to  such  a  whimsical  piece  of  famil- 
iarity as  that  of  tickling  my  nose  with  my  own  feather 
pen.  Happily  I  remembered  the  maxim  of  my  late 
grandfather,  who  was  accustomed  to  say  that  every- 


T&E  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.  99 

thing  was  permissible  on  the  part  of  ladies,  and  that 
whatever  they  do  to  us  is  to  be  regarded  as  a  grace  and 
a  favor.  Therefore,  as  a  grace  and  a  favor  I  received 
the  nutshells  and  the  titillations  with  my  own  pen,  and 
I  tried  to  smile.  Much  more ! — I  even  found  speech. 

"  Madame,"  I  said,  with  dignified  politeness,  "  you 
accord  the  honor  of  a  visit  not  to  a  silly  child,  nor  to 
a  boor,  but  to  a  bibliophile  who  is  very  happy  to  make 
your  acquaintance,  and  who  knows  that  long  ago  you 
used  to  make  elf-knots  in  the  manes  of  mares  at  the 
crib,  drink  the  milk  from  the  skimming-pails,  slip 
graines-d-gratter  down  the  backs  of  our  great-grand- 
mothers, make  the  hearth  sputter  in  the  faces  of  the 
old  folks,  and,  in  short,  fill  the  house  with  disorder 
and  gayety.  You  can  also  boast  of  giving  the  nicest 
frights  in  the  world  to  lovers  who  stayed  out  in  the 
woods  too  late  of  evenings.  But  I  thought  you  had 
vanished  out  of  existence  at  least  three  centuries  ago. 
Can  it  really  be,  Madame,  that  you  are  still  to  be  seen 
in  this  age  of  railroads  and  telegraphs  ?  My  concierge, 
who  used  to  be  a  nurse  in  her  young  days,  does  not 
know  your  story ;  and  my  little  boy-neighbor,  whose 
nose  is  still  wiped  for  him  by  his  bonne,  declares  that 
you  do  not  exist." 

"  What  do  you  yourself  think  about  it  ?"  she  cried, 
in  an  argentine  voice,  straightening  up  her  royal  little 
figure  in  a  very  haughty  fashion,  and  whipping  the 
back  of  the  "  Cosmography  of  Munster"  as  though  it 
were  a  hippogriffe. 


100        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

"  I  don't  really  know,"  I  answered,  rubbing  my  eyes. 

This  reply,  indicating  a  deeply  scientific  scepticism, 
had  the  most  deplorable  effect  upon  my  questioner. 

"  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard,"  she  said  to  me, 
•'you  are  nothing  but  an  old  pedant.  I  always  sus- 
pected as  much.  The  smallest  little  ragamuffin  who 
goes  along  the  road  with  his  shirt-tail  sticking  out 
through  a  hole  in  his  pantaloons  knows  more  about 
me  than  all  the  old  spectacled  folks  in  your  Institutes 
and  your  Academies.  To  know  is  nothing  at  all; 
to  imagine  is  everything.  Nothing  exists  except  that 
which  is  imagined.  I  am  imaginary.  That  is  to  ex- 
ist, I  should  certainly  think !  I  am  dreamed  of,  and  I 
appear.  •  Everything  is  only  dream ;  and  as  nobody 
ever  dreams  about  you,  Sylvestre  Bonnard,  it  is  you 
who  do  not  exist.  I  charm  the  world ;  I  am  every- 
where— on  a  moonbeam,  in  the  trembling  of  a  hidden 
spring,  in  the  moving  of  leaves  that  murmur,  in  the 
white  vapors  that  rise  each  morning  from  the  hollow 
meadow,  in  the  thickets  of  pink  brier — everywhere ! 
...  I  am  seen ;  I  am  loved.  There  are  sighs  uttered, 
weird  thrills  of  pleasure  felt  by  those  who  follow  the 
light  print  of  my  feet,  as  I  make  the  dead  leaves  whis- 
per. I  make  the  little  children  smile ;  I  give  wit  to 
the  dullest-minded  nurses.  Leaning  above  the  cra- 
dles, I  play,  I  comfort,  I  lull  to  sleep — and  you  doubt 
whether  I  exist !  Sylvestre  Bonnard,  your  warm  coat 
covers  the  hide  of  an  ass !" 

She  ceased  speaking;  her  delicate  nostrils  swelled 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        101 

with  indignation;  and  while  I  admired,  despite  my 
vexation,  the  heroic  anger  of  this  little  person,  she 
pushed  my  pen  about  in  the  ink-bottle,  backward  and 
forward,  like  an  oar,  and  then  suddenly  threw  it  at 
my  nose,  point  first. 

I  rubbed  my  face,  and  felt  it  all  covered  with  ink. 
She  had  disappeared.  My  lamp  was  extinguished. 
A  ray  of  moonlight  streamed  down  through  a  win- 
dow and  descended  upon  the  "  Cosmography  of  Mun- 
ster."  A  strong  cool  wind,  which  had  arisen  very 
suddenly  without  my  knowledge,  was  blowing  my 
papers,  pens,  and  wafers  about.  My  table  was  all 
stained  with  ink.  I  had  left  my  window  open  during 
the  storm.  What  an  imprudence ! 


III. 

I  WROTE  to  my  housekeeper,  as  I  promised,  that 
I  was  safe  and  sound.  But  I  took  good  care  not  to 
tell  her  that  I  had  caught  cold  from  going  to  sleep  in 
the  library  at  night  with  the  window  open ;  for  the 
good  woman  would  have  been  as  unsparing  in  her 
remonstrances  to  me  as  parliaments  to  kings.  "  At 
your  age,  Monsieur,"  she  would  have  been  sure  to  say, 
"one  ought  to  have  more  sense."  She  is  simple 
enough  to  believe  that  sense  grows  with  age.  I  seem 
to  her  an  exception  to  this  rule. 

Not  having  any  similar  motive  for  concealing  my 


102        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

experiences  from  Madame  de  Gabry,  I  told  her  all 
about  my  vision,  which  she  seemed  to  enjoy  very  much. 

"  Why,  that  was  a  charming  dream  of  yours,"  she 
said ;  "  and  one  must  have  real  genius  to  dream  such 
a  dream." 

"Then  I  am  a  real  genius  when  I  am  asleep,"  I 
responded. 

"  "When  you  dream,"  she  replied ;  "  and  you  are  al- 
ways dreaming." 

I  know  that  Madame  de  Gabry,  in  making  this  re- 
mark, only  wished  to  please  me ;  but  that  intention 
alone  deserves  my  utmost  gratitude ;  and  it  is  there- 
fore in  a  spirit  of  thankfulness  and  kindliest  remem- 
brance that  I  write  down  her  words,  which  I  will  read 
over  and  over  again  until  my  dying  day,  and  which 
will  never  be  read  by  any  one  save  myself. 

I  passed  the  next  few  days  in  completing  the  in- 
ventory of  the  manuscripts  in  the  Lusance  library. 
Certain  confidential  observations  dropped  by  Monsieur 
Paul  de  Gabry,  however,  caused  me  some  painful  sur- 
prise, and  made  me  decide  to  pursue  the  work  after  a 
different  manner  from  that  in  which  I  had  begun  it. 
From  those  few  words  I  learned  that  the  fortune  of 
Monsieur  Honore  de  Gabry,  which  had  been  badly 
managed  for  many  years,  and  subsequently  swept 
away  to  a  large  extent  through  the  failure  of  a  banker 
whose  name  I  do  not  know,  had  been  transmitted  to 
the  heirs  of  the  old  French  nobleman  only  under  the 
form  of  mortgaged  real  estate  and  irrecoverable  assets. 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.        103 

Monsieur  Paul,  by  agreement  with  his  joint  heirs, 
had  decided  to  sell  the  library,  and  I  was  intrusted 
with  the  task  of  making  arrangements  to  have  the 
sale  effected  upon  advantageous  terms.  But,  totally 
ignorant  as  I  was  of  all  business  methods  and  trade- 
customs,  I  thought  it  best  to  get  the  advice  of  a  pub- 
lisher who  was  one  of  my  private  friends.  I  wrote 
him  at  once  to  come  and  join  me  at  Lusance;  and 
while  waiting  for  his  arrival  I  took  my  hat  and  cane 
and  made  visits  to  the  different  churches  of  the  dio- 
cese, in  several  of  which  I  knew  there  were  certain 
mortuary  inscriptions  to  be  found  which  had  never 
been  correctly  copied. 

So  I  left  my  hosts  and  departed  on  my  pilgrimage. 
Exploring  the  churches  and  the  cemeteries  every  day, 
visiting  the  parish  priests  and  the  village  notaries, 
supping  at  the  public  inns  with  peddlers  and  cattle- 
dealers,  sleeping  at  nights  between  sheets  scented 
with  lavender,  I  passed  one  whole  week  in  the  quiet 
but  profound  enjoyment  of  observing  the  living  en- 
gaged in  their  various  daily  occupations  even  while  I 
was  thinking  of  the  dead.  As  for  the  purpose  of  my 
researches,  I  made  only  a  few  mediocre  discoveries, 
which  caused  me  only  a  mediocre  joy,  and  one  there- 
fore salubrious  and  not  at  all  fatiguing.  I  copied 
a  few  interesting  epitaphs ;  and  I  added  to  this  little 
collection  a  few  recipes  for  cooking  country  dishes, 
which  a  certain  good  priest  kindly  gave  me. 

With  these  riches,  I  returned  to  Lusance;  and  I 


104        THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

crossed  the  court-of -honor  with  such  secret  satisfac- 
tion as  a  bourgeois  feels  on  entering  his  own  home. 
This  was  the  effect  of  the  kindness  of  my  hosts ;  and 
the  impression  I  received  on  crossing  their  threshold 
proves,  better  than  any  reasoning  could  do,  the  excel- 
lence of  their  hospitality. 

I  entered  the  great  parlor  without  meeting  any- 
body ;  and  the  young  chestnut-tree  there  spreading 
out  its  broad  leaves  seemed  to  me  like  an  old  friend. 
But  the  next  thing  which  I  saw — on  the  pier-table — 
caused  me  such  a  shock  of  surprise  that  I  readjusted 
my  glasses  upon  my  nose  with  both  hands  at  once, 
and  then  felt  myself  over  so  as  to  get  at  least  some 
superficial  proof  of  my  own  existence.  In  less  than 
one  second  there  thronged  into  my  mind  twenty  dif- 
ferent conjectures — the  most  rational  of  which  was 
that  I  had  suddenly  become  crazy.  It  seemed  to  me 
absolutely  impossible  that  what  I  was  looking  at  could 
exist ;  yet  it  was  equally  impossible  for  me  not  to 
see  it  as  a  thing  actually  existing.  What  caused  my 
surprise  was  resting  on  the  pier-table,  above  which 
rose  a  great  dull  speckled  mirror. 

I  saw  myself  in  that  mirror ;  and  I  can  say  that  I 
saw  for  once  in  my  life  the  perfect  image  of  stupefac- 
tion. But  I  made  proper  allowance  for  myself;  I  ap- 
proved myself  for  being  so  stupefied  by  a  really  stupe- 
fying thing. 

The  object  I  was  thus  examining  with  a  degree  of 
astonishment  that  all  my  reasoning  power  failed  to 


THE  CRIME  OP  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD.        105 

lessen,  obtruded  itself  on  my  attention  though  quite 
motionless.  The  persistence  and  fixity  of  the  phe- 
nomenon excluded  any  idea  of  hallucination.  I  am. 
totally  exempt  from  all  nervous  disorders  capable  of 
influencing  the  sense  of  sight.  The  cause  of  such 
visual  disturbance  is,  I  think,  generally  due  to  stom- 
ach trouble;  and,  thank  God!  I  have  an  excellent 
stomach.  Moreover,  visual  illusions  are  accompanied 
with  special  abnormal  conditions  which  impress  the 
victims  of  hallucination  themselves,  and  inspire  them 
with  a  sort  of  terror.  Now,  I  felt  nothing  of  this 
kind;  the  object  which  I  saw,  although  seemingly 
impossible  in  itself,  appeared  to  me  under  all  the 
natural  conditions  of  reality.  I  observed  that  it  had 
three  dimensions,  and  colors,  and  that  it  cast  a  shadow. 
Ah !  how  I  stared  at  it !  The  water  came  into  my 
eyes  so  that  I  had  to  wipe  the  glasses  of  my  spec- 
tacles. 

Finally  I  found  myself  obliged  to  yield  to  the  evi- 
dence, and  to  affirm  that  I  had  really  before  my  eyes 
the  Fairy,  the  very  same  Fairy  I  had  been  dream- 
ing of  in  the  library  a  few  evenings  before.  It  was 
she,  it  was  her  very  self,  I  assure  you !  She  had  the 
same  air  of  child-queen,  the  same  proud  supple  poise ; 
she  held  the  same  hazel  wand  in  her  hand;  she 
still  wore  her  double-peaked  head-dress,  and  the  trail 
of  her  long  brocade  robe  undulated  about  her  little 
feet.  Same  face,  same  figure.  It  was  she  indeed; 
and  to  prevent  any  possible  doubt  of  it,  she  was  seated 


106        THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

on  the  back  of  a  huge  old-fashioned  book  strongly 
resembling  the  "  Cosmography  of  Munster."  Her  im- 
mobility but  half  reassured  me ;  I  was  really  afraid 
that  she  was  going  to  take  some  more  nuts  out  of  her 
alms-purse  and  throw  the  shells  at  my  face. 

I  was  standing  there,  waving  my  hands  and  gaping, 
when  the  musical  and  laughing  voice  of  Madame  de 
Gabry  suddenly  rang  in  my  ears. 

"  So  you  are  examining  your  fairy,  Monsieur  Bon- 
nard !"  said  my  hostess.  "  "Well,  do  you  think  the 
resemblance  good?" 

It  was  very  quickly  said ;  but  even  while  hearing 
it  I  had  time  to  perceive  that  my  fairy  was  a  statuette 
in  colored  wax,  modelled  with  much  taste  and  spirit  by 
some  novice  hand.  But  the  phenomenon,  even  thus 
reduced  by  a  rational  explanation,  did  not  cease  to 
excite  my  surprise.  How,  and  by  whom,  had  the 
Lady  of  the  Cosmography  been  enabled  to  assume 
plastic  existence  ?  That  was  what  remained  for  me  to 
learn. 

Turning  towards  Madame  Gabry,  I  perceived  that 
she  was  not  alone.  A  young  girl  dressed  in  black 
was  standing  beside  her.  She  had  large  intelligent 
eyes,  of  a  gray  as  sweet  as  that  of  the  sky  of  the 
Isle  of  France,  and  at  once  artless  and  characteristic 
in  their  expression.  At  the  extremities  of  her  rather 
thin  arms  were  fidgeting  uneasily  two  slender  hands, 
supple,  but  slightly  red,  as  it  becomes  the  hands  of 
young  girls  to  be.  Sheathed  in  her  closely  fitting 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.         107 

merino  robe,  she  had  the  slim  grace  of  a  young  tree ; 
and  her  large  mouth  bespoke  frankness.  I  could  not 
describe  how  much  the  child  pleased  me  at  first  sight ! 
She  was  not  beautiful ;  but  the  three  dimples  of  her 
cheeks  and  chin  seemed  to  laugh,  and  her  whole  per- 
son, which  revealed  the  awkwardness  of  innocence, 
had  something  in  it  indescribably  good  and  sincere. 

My  gaze  alternated  from  the  statuette  to  the  young 
girl ;  and  I  saw  her  blush — so  frankly  and  fully ! — 
the  crimson  passing  over  her  face  as  by  waves. 

"Well,"  said  my  hostess,  who  had  become  suffi- 
ciently accustomed  to  my  distracted  moods  to  put  the 
same  question  to  me  twice,  "  is  that  the  very  same 
lady  who  came  in  to  see  you  through  the  window  that 
you  left  open  ?  She  was  very  saucy ;  but  then  you 
were  quite  imprudent!  Anyhow,  do  you  recognize 
her?" 

"  It  is  her  very  self,"  I  replied ;  "  I  see  her  now  on 
that  pier-table  precisely  as  I  saw  her  on  the  table  in 
the  library." 

"  Then,  if  that  be  so,"  replied  Madame  de  Gabry, "  you 
have  to  blame  for  it,  in  the  first  place,  yourself,  as  a 
man  who,  although  devoid  of  all  imagination,  to  use 
your  own  words,  knew  how  to  depict  your  dream  in 
such  vivid  colors ;  in  the  second  place,  me,  who  was 
able  to  remember  and  repeat  faithfully  all  your  dream ; 
and,  lastly,  Mademoiselle  Jeanne,  whom  I  now  intro- 
duce to  you,  for  she  herself  modelled  that  wax-figure 
precisely  according  to  my  instructions." 


108         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

Madame  de  Gabry  had  taken  the  young  girl's  hand 
as  she  spoke ;  but  the  latter  had  suddenly  broken  away 
from  her,  and  was  already  running  through  the  park 
with  the  speed  of  a  bird. 

"Little  crazy  creature!"  Madame  de  Gabry  cried 
after  her.  "  How  can  one  be  so  shy  ?  Come  back 
here  to  be  scolded  and  kissed !" 

But  it  was  all  of  no  avail ;  the  frightened  child  dis- 
appeared among  the  shrubbery.  Madame  de  Gabry 
seated  herself  in  the  only  chair  remaining  in  the  dilap- 
idated parlor. 

"  I  should  be  much  surprised,"  she  said,  "  if  my  hus- 
band had  not  already  spoken  to  you  of  Jeanne.  She 
is  a  sweet  child,  and  we  both  love  her  very  much. 
Tell  me  the  plain  truth;  what  do  you  think  of  her 
statuette  ?" 

I  replied  that  the  work  was  full  of  good  taste  and 
spirit,  but  that  it  showed  some  want  of  study  and  prac- 
tice on  the  author's  part;  otherwise  I  had  been  ex- 
tremely touched  to  think  that  those  young  fingers 
should  have  thus  embroidered  an  old  man's  rough 
sketch  of  fancy,  and  figured  so  brilliantly  the  dreams 
of  a  dotard  like  myself. 

"  The  reason  I  ask  your  opinion,"  replied  Madame 
de  Gabry,  seriously, "  is  that  Jeanne  is  a  poor  orphan. 
Do  you  think  she  could  earn  her  living  by  modelling 
statuettes  like  this  one  ?" 

"  As  for  that,  no !"  I  replied ;  "  and  I  think  there  is 
no  reason  to  regret  the  fact.  You  say  the  girl  is  affec- 


THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD.         109 

tionate  and  sensitive ;  I  can  well  believe  you ;  I  could 
believe  it  from  her  face  alone.  There  are  excitements 
in  artist-life  which  impel  generous  hearts  to  act  out  of 
all  rule  and  measure.  This  young  creature  is  made  to 
love ;  keep  her  for  the  domestic  hearth.  There  only 
is  real  happiness." 

"But  she  has  no  dowry!"  replied  Madame  de 
Gabry. 

Then,  extending  her  hand  to  me,  she  continued : 

"You  are  our  friend;  I  can  tell  you  everything. 
The  father  of  this  child  was  a  banker,  and  one  of  our 
friends.  He  went  into  a  colossal  speculation,  and  it 
ruined  him.  He  survived  only  a  few  months  after  his 
failure,  in  which,  as  Paul  must  have  told  you,  three 
fourths  of  my  uncle's  fortune  were  lost,  and  more  than 
half  of  our  own. 

"  "We  had  made  his  acquaintance  at  Monaco,  during 
the  winter  Ave  passed  there  at  my  uncle's  house.  He 
had  an  adventurous  disposition,  but  such  an  engaging 
manner !  He  deceived  himself  before  he  ever  deceived 
others.  After  all,  it  is  in  the  ability  to  deceive  one's 
self  that  the  greatest  talent  is  shown,  is  it  not  ?  Well, 
we  were  captured — my  husband,  my  uncle,  and  I ;  and 
we  risked  much  more  than  a  reasonable  amount  in  a 
very  hazardous  undertaking.  But,  bah !  as  Paul  says, 
since  we  have  no  children  we  need  not  worry  about  it. 
Besides,  we  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  the 
friend  in  whom  we  trusted  was  an  honest  man.  .  .  . 
You  must  know  his  name,  it  was  so  often  in  the  pa- 


110         THE   CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

pers  and  on  public  placards — Noel  Alexandra  His 
wife  was  a  very  sweet  person.  I  knew  her  only  when 
she  was  already  past  her  prime,  with  traces  of  having 
once  been  very  pretty,  and  a  taste  for  fashionable 
style  and  display  which  seemed  quite  becoming  to 
her.  She  was  naturally  fond  of  social  excitement; 
but  she  showed  a  great  deal  of  courage  and  dignity 
after  the  death  of  her  husband.  She  died  a  year  after 
him,  leaving  Jeanne  alone  in  the  world." 

"  Clementine !"  I  cried  out. 

And  on  thus  learning  what  I  had  never  even  imag- 
ined— the  mere  idea  of  which  would  have  set  all  the 
forces  of  my  soul  in  revolt— upon  hearing  that  Clemen- 
tine was  no  longer  in  this  world,  something  like  a  great 
silence  came  within  me ;  and  the  feeling  which  flooded 
my  whole  being  was  not  a  keen,  strong  pain,  but  a 
quiet  and  solemn  sorrow.  Yet  I  was  conscious  of 
some  incomprehensible  sense  of  alleviation,  and  my 
thought  rose  suddenly  to  heights  before  unknown. 

"  From  wheresoever  thou  art  at  this  moment,  Cle"- 
mentine,"  I  said  to  myself,  "look  down  upon  this 
heart  now  indeed  cooled  by  age,  yet  whose  blood  once 
boiled  for  thy  sake,  and  say  whether  it  is  not  reani- 
mated by  the  mere  thought  of  being  able  to  love  all 
that  remains  of  thee  on  earth.  Everything  passes  away 
since  thou  thyself  hast  passed  away ;  but  Life  is  im- 
mortal ;  it  is  that  Life  we  must  love  in  its  forms  eter- 
nally renewed.  All  the  rest  is  child's  play ;  and  I  my- 
self, with  all  my  books,  am  only  like  a  child  playing 


THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD.        HI 

with  marbles.  The  purpose  of  life — it  is  thou,  Clemen- 
tine, who  hast  revealed  it  to  me !". .  . 

Madame  de  Gabry  aroused  me  from  my  thoughts 
by  murmuring, 

"  The  child  is  poor." 

"  The  daughter  of  Clementine  is  poor !"  I  exclaimed 
aloud;  "how  fortunate  that  it  is  so!  I  would  not 
wish  that  any  one  but  myself  should  provide  for  her 
and  dower  her!  No!  the  daughter  of  Clementine 
must  not  have  her  dowry  from  any  one  but  me." 

And,  approaching  Madame  de  Gabry  as  she  rose 
from  her  chair,  I  took  her  right  hand ;  I  kissed  that 
hand,  and  placed  it  on  my  arm,  and  said, 

"  You  will  conduct  me  to  the  grave  of  the  widow 
of  Noel  Alexandre." 

And  I  heard  Madame  de  Gabry  asking  me, 

"  Why  are  you  crying  ?" 


IV. 
THE  LITTLE  SAINT  GEORGE. 

April  16. 

SAINT  DROCTOVEUS  and  the  early  abbots  of  Saint- 
Germain-des-Pres  have  been  occupying  me  for  the 
past  forty  years  ;  but  I  do  not  know  if  I  shall  be  able 
to  write  their  history  before  I  go  to  join  them.  It  is 
already  quite  a  long  time  since  I  became  an  old  man. 
One  day  last  year,  on  the  Pont  des  Arts,  one  of  my 


112        THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

fellow-members  at  the  Institute  was  lamenting  before 
me  over  the  ennui  of  becoming  old. 

"  Still,"  Saint-Beuve  replied  to  him,  "  it  is  the  only 
way  that  has  yet  been  found  of  living  a  long  time." 

I  have  tried  this  way,  and  I  know  just  what  it  is 
worth.  The  trouble  of  it  is  not  that  one  lasts  too 
long,  but  that  one  sees  all  about  him  pass  away — 
mother,  wife,  friends,  children.  Nature  makes  and 
unmakes  all  these  divine  treasures  with  gloomy  indif- 
ference, and  at  last  we  find  that  we  have  not  loved, 
we  have  only  been  embracing  shadows.  But  how 
sweet  some  shadows  are !  If  ever  creature  glided 
like  a  shadow  through  the  life  of  a  man,  it  was  cer- 
tainly that  young  girl  whom  I  fell  in  love  with  when 
— incredible  though  it  now  seems — I  was  myself  a 
youth. 

A  Christian  sarcophagus  from  the  catacombs  of 
Rome  bears  a  formula  of  imprecation,  the  whole  ter- 
rible meaning  of  which  I  only  learned  with  time.  It 
says :  "  Whatsoever  impious  man  violates  this  sepul- 
chre, may  he  die  the  last  of  his  own  people  /"  In  my 
capacity  of  archa3ologist,  I  have  opened  tombs  and 
disturbed  ashes  in  order  to  collect  the  shreds  of  ap- 
parel, metal  ornaments,  or  gems  that  were  mingled 
with  those  ashes.  But  I  did  it  only  through  that  sci- 
entific curiosity  which  does  not  exclude  the  feelings 
of  reverence  and  of  piety.  May  that  malediction 
graven  by  some  one  of  the  first  followers  of  the  apos- 
tles upon  a  martyr's  tomb  never  fall  upon  me!  I 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.         H3 

ought  not  to  fear  to  survive  my  own  people  so  long 
as  there  are  men  in  the  world ;  for  there  are  always 
some  whom  one  can  love. 

But  the  power  of  love  itself  weakens  and  gradually 
becomes  lost  with  age,  like  all  the  other  energies  of 
man.  Example  proves  it ;  and  it  is  this  which  terri- 
fies me.  Am  I  sure  that  I  have  not  myself  already 
suffered  this  great  loss  ?  I  would  surely  have  felt  it, 
but  for  the  happy  meeting  which  has  rejuvenated  me. 
Poets  speak  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth :  it  does  exist ; 
it  gushes  up  from  the  earth  at  every  step  we  take. 
And  one  passes  by  without  drinking  of  it ! 

The  young  girl  I  loved,  married  of  her  own  choice 
to  a  rival,  passed,  all  gray-haired,  into  the  eternal  rest. 
I  have  found  her  daughter — so  that  my  life,  which 
before  seemed  to  me  without  utility,  now  once  more 
finds  a  purpose  and  a  reason  for  being. 

To-day  I  "  take  the  sun,"  as  they  say  in  Provence ; 
I  take  it  on  the  terrace  of  the  Luxembourg,  at  the 
foot  of  the  statue  of  Marguerite  de  Navarre.  It  is 
a  spring  sun,  intoxicating  as  young  wine.  I  sit  and 
dream.  My  thoughts  escape  from  my  head  like  the 
foam  from  a  bottle  of  beer.  They  are  light,  and  their 
fizzing  amuses  me.  I  dream :  such  a  pastime  is  cer- 
tainly permissible  to  an  old  fellow  who  has  published 
thirty  volumes  of  texts,  and  contributed  to  the  Jour- 
nal des  Savants  for  twenty-six  years.  I  have  the 
satisfaction  of  feeling  that  I  performed  my  task  as 
well  as  it  was  possible  for  me  to  do,  and  that  I  util- 
8 


114         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

ized  to  their  fullest  extent  those  mediocre  faculties 
with  which  Nature  endowed  me.  My  efforts  were 
not  all  in  vain,  and  I  have  contributed,  in  my  o\vn 
modest  way,  to  that  renaissance  of  historical  labors 
which  will  remain  the  honor  of  this  restless  century. 
I  shall  certainly  be  counted  among  those  ten  or  twelve 
who  revealed  to  France  her  own  literary  antiquities. 
My  publication  of  the  poetical  works  of  Gautier  de 
Coincy  inaugurated  a  judicious  system  and  made  a 
date.  It  is  in  the  austere  calm  of  old  age  that  I  de- 
cree to  myself  this  deserved  credit,  and  God,  who  sees 
my  heart,  knows  whether  pride  or  vanity  have  aught 
to  do  with  this  self -a  ward  of  justice. 

But  I  am  tired;  my  eyes  are  dim;  my  hand  trem- 
bles, and  I  see  an  image  of  myself  in  those  old  men 
of  Homer,  whose  weakness  excluded  them  from  the 
battle,  and  who,  seated  upon  the  ramparts,  lifted  up 
their  voices  like  crickets  among  the  leaves. 

So  my  thoughts  were  wandering  when  three  young 
men  seated  themselves  near  me.  I  do  not  know 
whether  each  one  of  them  had  come  in  three  boats, 
like  the  monkey  of  Lafontaine,  but  the  three  cer- 
tainly displayed  themselves  over  the  space  of  twelve 
chairs.  I  took  pleasure  in  watching  them,  not  be- 
cause they  had  anything  very  extraordinary  about 
them,  but  because  I  discerned  in  them  that  brave 
joyous  manner  which  is  natural  to  youth.  They  were 
from  the  schools.  I  was  less  assured  of  it  by  the 
books  they  were  carrying  than  by  the  character  of 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.         115 

their  physiognomy.  For  all  who  busy  themselves 
with  the  things  of  the  mind  can  be  at  once  recog- 
nized by  an  indescribable  something  which  is  com- 
mon to  all  of  them.  I  am  very  fond  of  young  people ; 
and  these  pleased  me,  in  spite  of  a  certain  provoking 
wild  manner  which  recalled  to  me  my  own  college 
days  with  marvellous  vividness.  But  they  did  not 
wear  velvet  doublets  and  long  hair,  as  we  used  to  do ; 
they  did  not  walk  about,  as  we  used  to  do,  with  a 
death's-head ;  they  did  not  cry  out,  as  we  used  to  do, 
"  Hell  and  malediction !"  They  were  quite  properly 
dressed,  and  neither  their  costume  nor  their  language 
had  anything  suggestive  of  the  Middle  Ages.  I  must 
also  add  that  they  paid  considerable  attention  to  the 
women  passing  on  the  terrace,  and  expressed  their 
admiration  of  some  of  them  in  very  animated  lan- 
guage. But  their  reflections,  even  on  this  subject, 
were  not  of  a  character  to  oblige  me  to  flee  from  my 
seat.  Besides,  so  long  as  youth  is  studious,  I  think  it 
has  a  right  to  its  gayeties. 

One  of  them,  having  made  some  gallant  pleasantry 
which  I  forget,  the  smallest  and  darkest  of  the  three 
exclaimed,  with  a  slight  Gascon  accent, 

"  What  a  thing  to  say !  Only  physiologists  like  us 
have  any  right  to  occupy  ourselves  about  living  mat- 
ter. As  for  you,  Gelis,  who  only  live  in  the  past- 
like  all  your  fellow  archivists  and  paleographers — 
you  will  do  better  to  confine  yourself  to  those  stone 
women  over  there,  who  are  your  contemporaries." 


116        THE   CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

And  he  pointed  to  the  statues  of  the  Ladies  of  An- 
cient France  which  towered  up,  all  white,  in  a  half- 
circle  under  the  trees  of  the  terrace.  This  joke, 
though  in  itself  trifling,  enabled  me  to  know  that  the 
young  man  called  Gelis  was  a  student  at  the  Ecole  des 
Chartes.  From  the  conversation  which  followed  I 
was  able  to  learn  that  his  neighbor,  blond  and  wan 
almost  to  diaphaneity,  taciturn  and  sarcastic,  was 
Boulmier,  a  fellow  -  student.  Gelis  and  the  future 
doctor  (I  hope  he  will  become  one  some  day)  dis- 
coursed together  with  much  fantasy  and  spirit.  In 
the  midst  of  the  loftiest  speculations  they  would 
play  upon  words,  and  make  jokes  after  the  peculiar 
fashion  of  really  witty  persons — that  is  to  say,  in  a 
style  of  enormous  absurdity.  I  need  hardly  say,  I 
suppose,  that  they  only  deigned  to  maintain  the  most 
monstrous  kind  of  paradoxes.  They  employed  all  their 
powers  of  imagination  to  make  themselves  as  ludicrous 
as  possible,  and  all  their  powers  of  reasoning  to  assert 
the  contrary  of  common  -  sense.  All  the  better  for 
them !  I  do  not  like  to  see  young  folks  too  rational. 

The  student  of  medicine,  after  glancing  at  the  title 
of  the  book  that  Boulmier  held  in  his  hand,  exclaimed, 

"  "What ! — you  read  Michelet — you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Boulmier,  very  gravely.  "  I  like 
novels." 

Gelis,  who  dominated  both  by  his  fine  stature,  im- 
perious gestures,  and  ready  wit,  took  the  book,  turned 
ever  a  few  pages  rapidly,  and  said, 


THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD.        117 

"Michelet  always  had  a  great  propensity  to  emo- 
tional tenderness.  He  wept  sweet  tears  over  Maillard, 
that  nice  little  man  who  introduced  la  paperasserie 
into  the  September  massacres.  But  as  emotional  ten- 
derness leads  to  fury,  he  becomes  all  at  once  furious 
against  the  victims.  There  was  no  help  for  it.  It  is 
the  sentimentality  of  the  age.  The  assassin  is  pitied, 
but  the  victim  is  considered  quite  unpardonable.  In 
his  later  manner  Michelet  is  more  Michelet  than  ever 
before.  There  is  no  common-sense  in  it ;  it  is  simply 
wonderful !  Neither  art  nor  science,  neither  criticism 
nor  narrative ;  only  furies  and  fainting-spells  and  epi- 
leptic fits  over  matters  which  he  never  deigns  to  ex- 
plain. Childish  outcries — envies  de  femme  grosse! — 
and  a  style,  my  friends  ! — not  a  single  finished  phrase  ! 
It  is  astounding  1" 

And  he  handed  the  book  back  to  his  comrade.  "This 
is  amusing  madness,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  and  not 
quite  so  devoid  of  common-sense  as  it  appears.  This 
young  man,  though  only  playing,  has  sharply  touched 
the  defect  in  the  cuirass." 

But  the  Provencal  student  declared  that  history  was 
a  thoroughly  despicable  exercise  of  rhetoric.  Accord- 
ing to  him,  the  only  true  history  was  the  natural  his- 
tory of  man.  Michelet  was  in  the  right  path  when  he 
came  in  contact  with  the  fistula  of  Louis  XIV.,  but  he 
fell  back  into  the  old  rut  almost  immediately  after- 
wards. 

After  this  judicious  expression  of  opinion,  the  young 


118        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

physiologist  went  to  join  a  party  of  passing  friends. 
The  two  archivists,  less  well  acquainted  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  a  garden  so  far  from  the  Hue  Paradis-aux- 
Marais,  remained  together,  and  began  to  chat  about 
their  studies.  Gelis,  who  had  completed  his  third 
class -year,  was  preparing  a  thesis  on  the  subject  of 
which  he  expatiated  with  youthful  enthusiasm.  In- 
deed, I  thought  the  subject  a  very  good  one,  particu- 
larly because  I  had  recently  thought  myself  called 
upon  to  treat  a  notable  part  of  it.  It  was  the  Monasti- 
cum  Gallicanum.  The  young  erudite  (I  give  him  the 
name  as  a  presage)  wants  to  describe  all  the  engrav- 
ings made  about  1690  for  the  work  which  Dom  Michel 
Germain  would  have  had  printed  but  for  the  one  irre- 
mediable hindrance  which  is  rarely  foreseen  and  never 
avoided.  Dom  Michel  Germain  left  his  manuscript 
complete,  however,  and  in  good  order  when  he  died. 
Will  I  be  able  to  do  as  much  with  mine  ? — but  that  is 
not  the  present  question.  So  far  as  I  am  able  to  un- 
derstand, Monsieur  Gelis  intends  to  devote  a  brief 
archaeological  notice  to  each  of  the  abbeys  pictured  by 
the  humble  engravers  of  Dom  Michel  Germain. 

His  friend  asked  him  whether  he  was  acquainted 
with  all  the  manuscripts  and  printed  documents  relating 
to  the  subject.  It  was  then  that  I  pricked  up  my  ears. 
They  spoke  at  first  of  original  sources ;  and  I  must 
confess  they  did  so  in  a  satisfactory  manner,  despite 
their  innumerable  and  detestable  puns.  Then  they  be- 
gan to  speak  about  contemporary  studies  on  the  subject. 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.        119 

"  Have  you  read,"  asked  Boulmier,  "  the  notice  of 
Courajod?" 

"  Good !"  I  thought  to  myself. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Gelis ;  "  it  is  accurate." 

"  Have  you  read,"  said  Boulmier,  "  the  article  by 
Tamisey  de  Larroque  in  the '  Revue  des  Questions  His- 
t6riques'  ?" 

"  Good !"  I  thought  to  myself,  for  the  second  time. 

"  Yes,"  rephed  Gelis,  "  it  is  full  of  things.". .  . 

"  Have  you  read,"  said  Boulmier, "  the  '  Tableau  des 
Abbayes  Benedictines  en  1600,'  by  Sylvestre  Bonnard  ?" 

"  Good !"  I  said  to  myself,  for  the  third  time. 

"  Mdfoi  !  no !"  replied  Gelis.   "  Bonnard  is  an  idiot !" 

Turning  my  head,  I  perceived  that  the  shadow  had 
reached  the  place  where  I  was  sitting.  It  was  grow- 
ing chilly,  and  I  thought  to  myself  what  a  fool  I  was 
to  have  remained  sitting  there,  at  the  risk  of  getting 
the  rheumatism,  just  to  listen  to  the  impertinence  of 
those  two  young  fellows ! 

"  Well !  well !"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  got  up.  "  Let 
this  prattling  fledgling  write  his  thesis,  and  sustain 
it!  He  will  find  my  colleague  Quicherat,  or  some 
other  professor  at  the  school,  to  show  him  what  an 
ignoramus  he  is.  I  consider  him  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  rascal;  and  really,  now  that  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  what  he  said  about  Michelet  awhile  ago 
was  quite  insufferable,  outrageous !  To  talk  in  that 
way  about  an  old  master  replete  with  genius !  It  was 
simply  abominable !" 


120         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

April  17. 

"  THERESE,  give  me  my  new  hat,  my  best  frock-coat, 
and  my  silver-headed  cane." 

But  Therese  is  deaf  as  a  sack  of  charcoal  and  slow 
as  Justice.  Years  have  made  her  so.  The  worst  is 
that  she  thinks  she  can  hear  well  and  move  about  Avell ; 
and,  proud  of  her  sixty  years  of  upright  domesticity, 
she  serves  her  old  master  with  the  most  vigilant  des- 
potism. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  .  .  .  And  now  she  will  not 
give  me  my  silver-headed  cane,  for  fear  that  I  might 
lose  it !  It  is  true  that  I  often  forget  umbrellas  and 
walking-sticks  in  the  omnibuses  and  booksellers'  shops. 
But  I  have  a  special  reason  for  wanting  to  take  out 
with  me  to-day  my  old  cane  with  the  engraved  silver 
head  representing  Don  Quixote  charging  a  windmill, 
lance  in  rest,  while  Sancho  Panza,  with  uplifted  arms, 
vainly  conjures  him  to  stop.  That  cane  is  all  that 
came  to  me  from  the  heritage  of  my  uncle,  Captain 
Victor,  who  in  his  lifetime  resembled  Don  Quixote 
much  more  than  Sancho  Panza,  and  who  loved  blows 
quite  as  much  as  most  people  fear  them. 

For  thirty  years  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  carry- 
ing this  cane  upon  all  memorable  or  solemn  visits 
which  I  make ;  and  those  two  figures  of  knight  and 
squire  give  me  inspiration  and  counsel.  I  imagine  I 
can  hear  them  speak.  Don  Quixote  says, 

w Think  well  about  great  things;  and  know  that 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.         121 

thought  is  the  only  reality  in  this  world.  Lift  up 
Nature  to  thine  own  stature ;  and  let  the  whole  uni- 
verse be  for  theo  no  more  than  the  reflection  of  thine 
own  heroic  soul.  Combat  for  honor's  sake :  that  alone 
is  worthy  of  a  man !  and  if  it  should  fall  to  thee  to  re- 
ceive wounds,  shed  thy  blood  as  a  beneficent  dew,  and 
smile." 

And  Sancho  Panza  says  to  me  in  his  turn, 
"Remain  just  what  heaven  made  thee,  comrade! 
Prefer  the  bread-crust  which  has  become  dry  in  thy 
wallet  to  all  the  partridges  that  roast  in  the  kitchens 
of  lords.  Obey  thy  master,  whether  he  be  a  wise 
man  or  a  fool,  and  do  not  cumber  thy  brain  with  too 
many  useless  things.  Fear  blows ;  'tis  verily  tempting 
God  to  seek  after  danger !" 

But  if  the  incomparable  knight  and  his  matchless 
squire  are  imaged  only  upon  this  cane  of  mine,  they 
are  realities  to  my  inner  conscience.  Within  every 
one  of  us  there  lives  both  a  Don  Quixote  and  a  Sancho 
Panza  to  whom  we  hearken  by  turns ;  and  though 
Sancho  most  persuades  us,  it  is  Don  Quixote  that  we 
find  ourselves  obliged  to  admire.  .  .  .  But  a  truce  to 
this  dotage ! — and  let  us  go  to  see  Madame  de  Gabry 
about  some  matters  more  important  than  the  every- 
day details  of  life. .  .  . 


So/me  day. 

I  FOUND  Madame  de  Gabry  dressed  in  black,  just 
buttoning  her  gloves. 


122          THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"  I  am  ready,"  she  said. 

Eeady ! — so  I  have  always  found  her  upon  any  oc- 
casion of  doing  a  kindness. 

After  some  compliments  about  the  good  health  of 
her  husband,  who  was  taking  a  walk  at  the  time,  we 
descended  the  stairs  and  got  into  the  carriage. 

I  do  not  know  what  secret  influence  I  feared  to  dis- 
sipate by  breaking  silence,  but  we  followed  the  great 
deserted  drives  without  speaking,  looking  at  the  cross- 
es, the  monumental  columns,  and  the  mortuary  wreaths 
awaiting  sad  purchasers. 

The  vehicle  at  last  halted  at  the  extreme  verge  of 
the  land  of  the  living,  before  the  gate  upon  which 
words  of  hope  are  graven. 

"  Follow  me,"  said  Madame  de  Gabry,  whose  tall 
stature  I  noticed  then  for  the  first  time.  She  first 
walked  down  an  alley  of  cypresses,  and  then  took  a 
very  narrow  path  contrived  between  the  tombs.  Fi- 
nally, halting  before  a  plain  slab,  she  said  to  me, 

"  It  is  here." 

And  she  knelt  down.  I  could  not  help  noticing 
the  beautiful  easy  manner  in  which  this  Christian 
woman  fell  upon  her  knees,  leaving  the  folds  of  her 
robe  to  spread  themselves  at  random  about  her.  I 
had  never  before  seen  any  lady  kneel  down  with  such 
frankness  and  such  forgetfulness  of  self,  except  two 
fair  Polish  exiles,  one  evening  long  ago,  in  a  deserted 
church  in  Paris. 

This  image  passed  like  a  flash ;  and  I  saw  only  the 


THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD.         123 

sloping  stone  on  which  was  graven  the  name  of  Cle- 
mentine. What  I  then  felt  was  something  so  deep  and 
vague  that  only  the  sound  of  some  rich  music  could 
convey  any  idea  of  it.  I  seemed  to  hear  instruments 
of  celestial  sweetness  make  harmony  in  my  old  heart. 
"With  the  solemn  accords  of  a  funeral  chant  there 
seemed  to  mingle  the  subdued  melody  of  a  song  of 
love ;  for  my  soul  blended  into  one  feeling  the  grave 
sadness  of  the  present  with  the  familiar  graces  of  the 
past. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  we  had  remained  a  long  time 
at  the  tomb  of  Clementine  before  Madame  de  Garby 
arose.  We  passed  through  the  cemetery  again  with- 
out speaking  to  each  other.  Only  when  we  found 
ourselves  among  the  living  once  more  did  I  feel  able 
to  speak. 

"  While  following  you  there,"  I  said  to  Madame  de 
Gabry,  "I  could  not  help  thinking  of  those  angels 
with  whom  we  are  said  to  meet  on  the  mysterious 
confines  of  life  and  death.  That  tomb  you  led  me  to, 
of  which  I  knew  nothing — as  I  know  nothing,  or 
scarcely  anything,  concerning  her  whom  it  covers — 
brought  back  to  me  emotions  which  were  unique  in 
my  life,  and  which  seem  in  the  dulness  of  that  life 
like  some  light  gleaming  upon  a  dark  road.  The  light 
recedes  farther  and  farther  away  as  the  journey 
lengthens ;  I  have  now  almost  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  last  slope ;  and,  nevertheless,  each  time  I  turn  to 
look  back  I  see  the  glow  as  bright  as  ever. 


124        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

"You,  Madame,  who  knew  Clementine  as  a  wife 
and  mother  after  her  hair  had  become  gray,  you  can- 
not imagine  her  as  I  see  her  still ;  a  young  fair  girl, 
all  pink  and  white.  Since  you  have  been  so  kind  as 
to  be  my  guide,  dear  Madame,  I  ought  to  tell  you 
what  feelings  were  awakened  in  me  by  the  sight  of 
that  grave  to  which  you  led  me.  Memories  throng 
back  upon  me.  I  feel  myself  like  some  old  gnarled 
and  mossy  oak  which  awakens  a  nestling  world  of 
birds  by  the  shaking  of  its  branches.  Unfortunately 
the  song  my  birds  sing  is  old  as  the  world,  and  can 
amuse  no  one  but  myself." 

"  Tell  me  your  souvenirs,"  said  Madame  de  Gabry. 
"  I  cannot  read  your  books,  because  they  are  written 
only  for  scholars ;  but  I  like  very  much  to  have  you 
talk  to  me,  because  you  know  how  to  give  interest  to 
the  most  ordinary  things  in  life.  And  talk  to  me  just 
as  you  would  talk  to  an  old  woman.  This  morning  I 
found  three  gray  threads  in  my  hair." 

"Let  them  come  without  regret,  Madame,"  I  re- 
plied. "  Time  deals  gently  only  with  those  who  take 
it  gently.  And  when  in  some  years  more  you  will 
have  a  silvery  fringe  under  your  black  fillet,  you  will 
be  reclothed  with  a  new  beauty,  less  vivid  but  more 
touching  than  the  first ;  and  you  will  find  your  hus- 
band admiring  your  gray  tresses  as  much  as  he  did 
that  black  curl  which  you  gave  him  when  about  to  be 
married,  and  which  he  preserves  hi  a  locket  as  a  thing 
sacred.  .  .  .  These  boulevards  are  broad  and  very 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.         125 

quiet.  We  can  talk  at  our  ease  as  we  walk  along.  1 
will  tell  you,  to  begin  with,  how  I  first  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Clementine's  father.  But  you  must  not 
expect  anything  extraordinary,  or  anything  even  re- 
markable ;  you  would  be  greatly  deceived. 

"Monsieur  de  Lessay  used  to  live  in  the  second 
story  of  an  old  house  in  the  Avenue  de  1'Observatoire, 
having  a  stuccoed  front,  ornamented  with  antique 
busts,  and  a  large  unkept  garden  attached  to  it.  That 
fagade  and  that  garden  were  the  first  images  my 
child -eyes  perceived;  and  they  will  be  the  last,  no 
doubt,  which  I  shall  still  see  through  my  closed  eye- 
lids when  the  Inevitable  Day  comes.  For  it  was 
in  that  house  that  I  was  born ;  it  was  in  that  gar- 
den I  first  learned,  while  playing,  to  feel  and  know 
some  particles  of  this  old  universe.  Magical  hours  !— 
sacred  hour^! — when  the  soul,  all  fresh  from  the 
making,  first  discovers  the  world,  which  for  its  sake 
seems  to  assume  such  caressing  brightness,  such  mys- 
terious charm !  And  that,  Madame,  is  indeed  because 
the  universe  itself  is  only  the  reflection  of  our  soul. 

"  My  mother  was  a  being  very  happily  constituted. 
She  rose  with  the  sun,  like  the  birds ;  and  she  herself 
resembled  the  birds  by  her  domestic  industry,  by  her 
maternal  instinct,  by  her  perpetual  desire  to  sing,  and 
by  a  sort  of  brusque  grace,  which  I  could  feel  the 
charm  of  very  well  even  as  a  child.  She  was  the  soul 
of  the  house,  which  she  filled  with  her  systematic  and 
joyous  activity.  My  father  was  just  as  slow  as  she 


126         THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

was  brisk.  I  can  recall  very  well  that  placid  face  of 
his,  over  which  at  times  an  ironical  smile  used  to  flit. 
He  was  fatigued  with  active  life;  and  he  loved  his 
fatigue.  Seated  beside  the  fire  in  his  big  arm-chair, 
he  used  to  read  from  morning  till  night ;  and  it  is 
from  him  that  I  inherit  my  love  of  books.  I  have  in 
my  library  a  Mably  and  a  Kaynal,  which  he  annotated 
with  his  own  hand  from  beginning  to  end.  But  it  was 
utterly  useless  attempting  to  interest  him  in  anything 
practical  whatever.  When  my  mother  would  try,  by 
all  kinds  of  gracious  little  ruses,  to  lure  him  out  of  his 
retirement,  he  would  simply  shake  his  head  with  that 
inexorable  gentleness  which  is  the  force  of  weak  char- 
acters. He  used  in  this  way  to  greatly  worry  the 
poor  woman,  who  could  not  enter  at  all  into  his  own 
sphere  of  meditative  wisdom,  and  could  understand 
nothing  of  life  except  its  daily  duties  and  the  merry 
labor  of  each  hour.  She  thought  him  sick,  and  feared 
he  was  going  to  become  still  more  so.  But  his  apathy 
had  a  different  cause. 

"  My  father,  entering  the  Naval  Office  under  Mon- 
sieur Decres,  in  1801,  gave  early  proof  of  high  admin- 
istrative talent.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  activity  in 
the  marine  department  in  those  times;  and  in  1805 
my  father  was  appointed  chief  of  the  Second  Admin- 
istrative Division.  That  same  year,  the  Emperor, 
whose  attention  had  been  called  to  him  by  the  Minis- 
ter, ordered  him  to  make  a  report  upon  the  organiza- 
tion of  the  English  navy.  This  work,  which  reflected 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.        127 

a  profoundly  liberal  and  philosophic  spirit,  of  which 
the  editor  himself  was  unconscious,  was  only  finished 
in  1807 — about  eighteen  months  after  the  defeat  of 
Admiral  Yilleneuve  at  Trafalgar.  Napoleon,  who, 
from  that  disastrous  day,  never  wanted  to  hear  the 
word  ship  mentioned  in  his  presence,  angrily  glanced 
over  a  few  pages  of  the  memoir,  and  then  threw  it 
into  the  fire,  vociferating,  'Words! — words!  I  said 
once  before  that  I  hated  ideologists.'  My  father  was 
told  afterwards  that  the  Emperor's  anger  was  so  in- 
tense at  the  moment  that  he  stamped  the  manuscript 
down  into  the  fire  with  his  boot-heels.  At  all  events, 
it  was  his  habit,  when  very  much  irritated,  to  poke 
down  the  fire  with  his  feet  until  he  had  scorched  his 
boot-soles.  My  father  never  fully  recovered  from  this 
disgrace ;  and  the  fruitlessness  of  all  his  efforts  tow- 
ards reform  was  certainly  the  cause  of  the  apathy 
which  came  upon  him  at  a  later  day.  Nevertheless, 
Napoleon,  after  his  return  from  Elba,  sent  for  him, 
and  ordered  him  to  prepare  some  liberal  and  patriotic 
bulletins  and  proclamations  for  the  fleet.  After  Wa- 
terloo, my  father,  whom  the  event  had  rather  sad- 
dened than  surprised,  retired  into  private  life,  and  was 
not  interfered  with  —  except  that  it  was  generally 
averred  of  him  that  he  was  a  Jacobin,  a  buveur-de- 
sang — one  of  those  men  with  whom  no  one  could  af- 
ford to  be  on  intimate  terms.  My  mother's  eldest 
brother,  Victor  Maldent,  an  infantry  captain — retired 
on  half-pay  in  1814,  and  disbanded  in  1815 — aggravat- 


128        THE  CRIME  OF  87LVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

ed  by  his  bad  attitude  the  situation  in  which  the  fall 
of  the  Empire  had  placed  my  father.  Captain  Victor 
used  to  shout  in  the  cafes  and  the  public  balls  that 
the  Bourbons  had  sold  France  to  the  Cossacks.  He 
used  to  show  everybody  a  tricolored  cockade  hidden 
in  the  lining  of  his  hat ;  and  carried  with  much  osten- 
tation a  walking-stick  the  handle  of  which  had  been 
so  carved  that  the  shadow  thrown  by  it  made  the  sil- 
houette of  the  Emperor. 

"  Unless  you  have  seen  certain  lithographs  by  Char- 
let,  Madame,  you  could  form  no  idea  of  the  physiog- 
nomy of  my  Uncle  Victor,  when  he  used  to  stride 
about  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  with  a  fiercely  ele- 
gant manner  of  his  own — buttoned  up  in  his  frogged 
coat,  with  his  cross-of-honor  upon  his  breast,  and  a 
bouquet  of  violets  in  his  button-hole. 

"  Idleness  and  intemperance  greatly  intensified  the 
vulgar  recklessness  of  his  political  passions.  He  used 
to  insult  people  whom  he  happened  to  see  reading  the 
Quotidienne,  or  the  Drapeau  Blanc,  and  compel  them 
to  fight  with  him.  In  this  way  he  had  the  pain  and 
the  shame  of  wounding  a  boy  of  sixteen  in  a  duel. 
In  short,  my  Uncle  Victor  was  the  very  reverse  of  a 
well-educated  person ;  and  as  he  came  to  breakfast 
and  dine  at  our  house  every  blessed  day  in  the  year, 
his  bad  reputation  became  attached  to  our  family. 
My  poor  father  suffered  cruelly  from  some  of  his 
guest's  pranks ;  but  being  very  good-natured,  he  never 
made  any  remarks,  and  continued  to  give  the  free- 


THE  CRIME  OP  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD.        129 

dom  of  his  house  to  the  captain,  who  only  despised 
him  for  it. 

"  All  this  which  I  have  told  you,  Madame,  was  ex- 
plained to  me  afterwards.  But  at  the  time  in  ques- 
tion, my  uncle  the  captain  filled  me  with  the  very 
enthusiasm  of  admiration,  and  I  promised  myself  to 
try  to  become  some  day  as  like  him  as  possible.  So 
one  fine  morning,  in  order  to  begin  the  likeness,  I  put 
my  arms  akimbo,  and  swore  like  a  trooper.  My  ex- 
cellent mother  at  once  gave  me  such  a  box  on  the  ear 
that  I  remained  half  stupefied  for  some  little  while 
before  I  could  even  burst  out  crying.  I  can  still  see 
the  old  arm-chair,  covered  with  yellow  Utrecht  velvet, 
behind  which  I  wept  innumerable  tears  that  day. 

"  I  was  a  very  little  fellow  then.  One  morning  my 
father,  lifting  me  upon  his  knees,  as  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  doing,  smiled  at  me  with  that  slightly  ironi- 
cal smile  which  gave  a  certain  piquancy  to  his  per- 
petual gentleness  of  manner.  As  I  sat  on  his  knee, 
playing  with  his  long  white  hair,  he  told  me  some- 
thing which  I  did  not  understand  very  well,  but  which 
interested  me  very  much,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
it  was  mysterious  to  me.  I  think,  but  am  not  quite 
sure,  that  he  related  to  me  that  morning  the  story  of 
the  little  King  of  Yvetot,  according  to  the  song.  All 
of  a  sudden  we  heard  a  great  report ;  and  the  win- 
dows rattled.  My  father  slipped  me  down  gently  on' 
the  floor  at  his  feet ;  he  threw  up  his  trembling  arms, 
with  a  strange  gesture  ;  his  face  became  all  inert  and 
9 


130        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

white,  and  his  eyes  seemed  enormous.  He  tried  to 
speak,  but  his  teeth  were  chattering.  At  last  he  mur- 
mured, "  They  have  shot  him !"  I  did  not  know 
what  he  meant,  and  felt  only  a  vague  terror.  I  knew 
afterwards,  however,  that  he  was  speaking  of  Marshal 
Ney,  who  fell  on  the  7th  of  December,  1815,  under 
the  wall  enclosing  a  vacant  lot  beside  our  house. 

"  About  that  time  I  used  often  to  meet  on  the  stair- 
way an  old  man  (or,  perhaps,  not  exactly  an  old  man) 
with  little  black  eyes  which  flashed  with  extraordi- 
nary vivacity,  and  an  impassive  swarthy  face.  He 
did  not  seem  to  me  alive — or  at  least  he  did  not  seem 
to  me  alive  in  the  same  way  that  other  men  were 
alive.  I  had  once  seen,  at  the  residence  of  Monsieur 
Denon,  where  my  father  had  taken  me  with  him  on 
a  visit,  a  mummy  brought  from  Egypt;  and  I  be- 
lieved in  good  faith  that  Monsieur  Denon's  mummy 
used  to  get  up  when  no  one  was  looking,  leave  its 
gilded  case,  put  on  a  brown  coat  and  powdered  wig, 
and  become  transformed  into  Monsieur  de  Lessay. 
And  even  to-day,  dear  Madame,  while  I  reject  that 
opinion  as  being  without  foundation,  I  must  confess 
that  Monsieur  de  Lessay  bore  a  very  strong  resem- 
blance to  Monsieur  Denon's  mummy.  The  fact  is 
enough  to  explain  why  this  person  inspired  me  with 
fantastic  terror. 

"  In  reality,  Monsieur  de  Lessay  was  a  small  gentle- 
man and  a  great  philosopher.  As  a  disciple  of  Mably 
and  Rousseau,  he  flattered  himself  on  being  a  man  with- 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        131 

out  any  prejudices ;  and  this  pretension  itself  is  a  very 
great  prejudice. 

"  He  professed  to  hate  fanaticism,  yet  was  himself  a 
fanatic  on  the  topic  of  toleration.  I  am  telling  you, 
Madame,  about  a  character  belonging  to  an  age  that 
is  past.  I  fear  I  will  not  be  able  to  make  you  under- 
stand, and  I  am  sure  I  will  not  be  able  to  interest  you. 
It  was  so  long  ago !  But  I  will  abridge  as  much  as 
possible  :  besides,  I  did  not  promise  you  anything  in- 
teresting ;  and  you  could  not  have  expected  to  hear 
of  remarkable  adventures  in  the  life  of  Sylvestre  Bon- 
nard." 

Madame  de  Gabry  encouraged  me  to  proceed,  and 
I  resumed : 

''Monsieur  de  Lessay  was  brusque  with  men  and 
courteous  to  ladies.  He  used  to  kiss  the  hand  of  my 
mother,  whom  the  customs  of  the  Kepublic  and  the 
Empire  had  not  habituated  to  such  gallantry.  In  him, 
I  touched  the  age  of  Louis  XYI.  Monsieur  de  Lessay 
was  a  geographer ;  and  nobody,  I  believe,  ever  showed 
more  pride  than  he  in  occupying  himself  with  the  face 
of  the  earth.  Under  the  Old  Eegime  he  had  attempted 
philosophical  agriculture,  and  thus  squandered  his  es- 
tates to  the  very  last  acre.  When  he  had  ceased  to 
own  one  square  foot  of  ground,  he  took  possession  of 
the  whole  globe,  and  prepared  an  extraordinary  num- 
ber of  maps,  based  upon  the  narratives  of  travellers. 
But  as  he  had  been  mentally  nourished  with  the  very 
marrow  of  the  "  Encyclopedic,"  he  was  not  satisfied  with 


132         THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

merely  parking  off  human  beings  within  so  many  de- 
grees, minutes,  and  seconds  of  latitude  and  longitude. 
He  also  occupied  himself,  alas !  with  the  question  of 
their  happiness.  It  is  worthy  of  remark,  Madame, 
that  those  who  have  given  themselves  the  most  con- 
cern about  the  happiness  of  peoples  have  made  their 
neighbors  very  miserable.  Monsieur  de  Lessay,  who 
was  more  of  a  geometrician  than  D'Alembert,  and 
more  of  a  philosopher  than  Jean  Jacques,  was  also 
more  of  a  royalist  than  Louis  XVIII.  But  his  love 
for  the  King  was  as  nothing  to  his  hate  for  the 
Emperor.  He  had  joined  the  conspiracy  of  Georges 
against  the  First  Consul;  but  in  the  framing  of  the 
indictment  he  was  not  included  among  the  inculpated 
parties,  having  been  either  ignored  or  despised,  and 
this  injury  he  never  could  forgive  Bonaparte,  whom 
he  called  the  Ogre  of  Corsica,  and  to  whom  he  used  to 
say  he  would  never  have  confided  even  the  command 
of  a  regiment,  so  pitiful  a  soldier  he  judged  him  to  be. 

"  In  1820,  Monsieur  de  Lessay,  who  had  then  been  a 
widower  for  many  years,  married  again,  at  the  age  of 
sixty,  a  very  young  woman,  whom  he  pitilessly  kept 
at  work  preparing  maps  for  him,  and  who  gave  him  a 
daughter  some  years  after  their  marriage,  and  died  in 
childbed.  My  mother  had  nursed  her  during  her 
brief  illness,  and  had  taken  care  of  the  child.  The 
name  of  that  child  Avas  Clementine. 

"  It  was  from  the  time  of  that  birth  and  that  death 
that  the  relations  between  our  family  and  Monsieur  de 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        133 

Lessay  began.  In  the  meanwhile  I  had  been  growing 
dull  as  I  began  to  leave  my  true  childhood  behind  me. 
I  had  lost  the  charming  power  of  being  able  to  see  and 
feel ;  and  things  no  longer  caused  me  those  delicious 
surprises  which  form  the  enchantment  of  the  more 
tender  age.  For  the  same  reason,  perhaps,  I  have  no 
distinct  remembrance  of  the  period  following  the  birth 
of  Clementine ;  I  only  know  that  a  few  months  after- 
wards I  had  a  misfortune,  the  mere  thought  of  which 
still  wrings  my  heart.  I  lost  my  mother.  A  great 
silence,  a  great  coldness,  and  a  great  darkness  seemed 
all  at  once  to  fill  the  house. 

"  I  fell  into  a  sort  of  torpor.  My  father  sent  me  to 
the  lycee,  but  I  could  only  arouse  myself  from  my 
lethargy  with  the  greatest  effort. 

"  Still,  I  was  not  altogether  a  dullard,  and  my  pro- 
fessors were  able  to  teach  me  almost  everything  they 
wanted,  namely,  a  little  Greek  and  a  great  deal  of 
Latin.  My  acquaintances  were  confined  to  the  ancients. 
I  learned  to  esteem  Miltiades,  and  to  admire  Themisto- 
cles.  I  became  familiar  with  Quintus  Fabius,  as  far, 
at  least,  as  it  was  possible  to  become  familiar  with  so 
great  a  Consul.  Proud  of  these  lofty  acquaintances,  I 
scarcely  ever  condescended  to  notice  little  Clementine 
and  her  old  father,  who,  in  any  event,  went  away 
to  Normandy  one  fine  morning  without  my  having 
deigned  to  give  a  moment's  thought  to  their  possible 
return. 

They  came  back,  however,  Madame,  they  came  back ! 


134         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

Influences  of  Heaven,  forces  of  nature,  all  ye  mysteri- 
ous powers  which  vouchsafe  to  man  the  ability  to  love, 
you  know  how  I  again  beheld  Clementine !  They  re- 
entered  our  melancholy  home.  Monsieur  de  Lessay 
no  longer  wore  a  wig.  Bald,  with  a  few  gray  locks 
about  his  ruddy  temples,  he  had  all  the  aspect  of  ro- 
bust old  age.  But  that  divine  being  whom  I  saw  all 
resplendent,  as  she  leaned  upon  his  arm  —  she  whose 
presence  illuminated  the  old  faded  parlor — she  was  not 
an  apparition !  It  was  Clementine  herself !  I  am 
speaking  the  simple  truth :  her  violet  eyes  seemed  to 
me  in  that  moment  supernatural,  and  even  to-day  I 
cannot  imagine  how  those  two  living  jewels  could 
have  endured  the  fatigues  of  life,  or  become  subjected 
to  the  corruption  of  death. 

"  She  betrayed  a  little  shyness  in  greeting  my  father, 
whom  she  did  not  remember.  Her  complexion  was 
slightly  pink,  and  her  half-open  lips  smiled  with  that 
smile  which  makes  one  think  of  the  Infinite — perhaps 
because  it  betrays  no  particular  thought,  and  expresses 
only  the  joy  of  living  and  the  bliss  of  being  beautiful. 
Under  a  pink  hood  her  face  shone  like  a  gem  in  an 
open  casket ;  she  wore  a  cashmere  scarf  over  a  robe  of 
white  muslin  plaited  at  the  waist,  from  beneath  which 
protruded  the  tip  of  a  little  Morocco  shoe.  .  .  .  Oh ! 
you  must  not  make  fun  of  me,  dear  Madame,  that  was 
the  fashion  of  the  time  ;  and  I  do  not  know  whether 
our  new  fashions  have  nearly  so  much  simplicity, 
brightness,  and  decorous  grace. 


THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVE8TRE  BONNARD.        135 

"Monsieur  de  Lessay  informed  us  that,  in  conse- 
quence of  having  undertaken  the  publication  of  a  his- 
torical atlas,  he  had  come  back  to  live  in  Paris,  and 
that  he  would  be  pleased  to  occupy  his  former  room, 
if  it  was  still  vacant.  My  father  asked  Mademoiselle 
de  Lessay  whether  she  was  pleased  to  visit  the  capi- 
tal. She  appeared  to  be,  for  her  smile  blossomed  out 
in  reply.  She  smiled  at  the  windows  that  looked  out 
upon  the  green  and  luminous  garden ;  she  smiled  at 
the  bronze  Marius  seated  among  the  ruins  of  Car- 
thage above  the  dial  of  the  clock ;  she  smiled  at  the 
old  yellow-velveted  arm-chairs,  and  at  the  poor  stu- 
dent who  was  afraid  to  lift  his  eyes  to  look  at  her. 
From  that  day — how  I  loved  her ! 

"But  here  we  are  already  at  the  Eue  de  Sevres, 
and  in  a  little  while  we  shall  be  in  sight  of  your  win- 
dows. I  am  a  very  bad  story-teller;  and  if  I  were 
—  by  some  impossible  chance  —  to  take  it  into  my 
head  to  compose  a  novel,  I  know  I  should  never  suc- 
ceed. I  have  been  drawing  out  to  tiresome  length  a 
narrative  which  I  must  finish  briefly ;  for  there  is  a 
certain  delicacy,  a  certain  grace  of  soul,  which  an  old 
man  could  not  help  offending  by  any  complacent  ex- 
patiation  upon  the  sentiments  of  even  the  purest  love. 
Let  us  take  a  short  turn  on  this  boulevard,  lined  with 
convents ;  and  my  recital  will  be  easily  finished  with- 
in the  distance  separating  us  from  that  little  spire  you 
see  over  there.  .  .  . 
"  Monsieur  de  Lessay,  on  finding  that  I  had  gradu- 


136        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

ated  at  the  Ecole  des  Chartes,  judged  me  worthy  to 
assist  him  in  preparing  his  historical  atlas.  The  plan 
was  to  illustrate,  by  a  series  of  maps,  what  the  old  phi- 
losopher termed  the  Vicissitudes  of  Empires  from  the 
time  of  Noah  down  to  that  of  Charlemagne.  Mon- 
sieur de  Lessay  had  stored  up  in  his  head  all  the  errors 
of  the  eighteenth  century  in  regard  to  antiquity.  I 
belonged,  so  far  as  my  historical  studies  were  con- 
cerned, to  the  new  school ;  and  I  was  just  at  that  age 
when  one  does  not  know  how  to  dissemble.  The 
manner  in  which  the  old  man  understood,  or,  rather, 
misunderstood,  the  epoch  of  the  Barbarians, — his  ob- 
stinate determination  to  find  in  remote  antiquity  only 
ambitious  princes,  hypocritical  and  avaricious  prelates, 
virtuous  citizens,  poet-philosophers,  and  other  person- 
ages who  never  existed  outside  of  the  novels  of  Mar- 
montel, — made  me  dreadfully  unhappy,  and  at  first 
used  to  excite  me  into  attempts  at  argument, — rational 
enough,  but  perfectly  useless  and  sometimes  danger- 
ous, for  Monsieur  de  Lessay  was  very  irascible,  and 
Clementine  was  very  beautiful.  Between  her  and  him 
I  passed  many  hours  of  torment  and  of  delight.  I 
was  in  love ;  I  was  a  coward,  and  I  granted  to  him 
all  that  he  demanded  of  me  in  regard  to  the  political 
and  historical  aspect  which  the  Earth — that  was  at  a 
later  day  to  bear  Clementine — presented  in  the  time 
of  Abraham,  of  Menes,  and  of  Deucalion. 

"As  fast  as  we  drew  our  maps  Mademoiselle  de 
Lessay  tinted  them  in  water -colors.    Bending  over 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         137 

the  table,  she  held  the  brush  lightly  between  two  fin- 
gers ;  the  shadow  of  her  eyelashes  descended  upon 
her  cheeks,  and  bathed  her  half -closed  eyes  in  a  deli- 
cious penumbra.  Sometimes  she  would  lift  her  head, 
and  I  would  see  her  lips  pout.  There  was  so  much 
expression  in  her  beauty  that  she  could  not  breathe 
without  seeming  to  sigh ;  and  her  most  ordinary  poses 
used  to  throw  me  into  the  deepest  ecstasies  of  admira- 
tion. Whenever  I  gazed  at  her  I  fully  agreed  with 
Monsieur  de  Lessay  that  Jupiter  had  once  reigned  as 
a  despot-king  over  the  mountainous  regions  of  Thes- 
saly,  and  that  Orpheus  had  committed  the  imprudence 
of  leaving  the  teaching  of  philosophy  to  the  clergy. 
I  am  not  now  quite  sure  whether  I  was  a  coward  or  a 
hero  when  I  accorded  all  this  to  the  obstinate  old  man. 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Lessay,  I  must  acknowledge,  paid 
very  little  attention  to  me.  But  this  indifference 
seemed  to  me  so  just  and  so  natural  that  I  never  even 
dreamed  of  thinking  I  had  a  right  to  complain  about 
it ;  it  made  me  unhappy,  but  without  my  knowing  that 
I  was  unhappy  at  the  time.  I  was  hopeful ; — we  had 
then  only  got  as  far  as  the  First  Assyrian  Empire. 

''Monsieur  de  Lessay  came  every  evening  to  take  cof- 
fee with  my  father.  I  do  not  know  how  they  became 
such  friends ;  for  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find 
two  characters  more  oppositely  constituted.  My  fa- 
ther was  a  man  who  admired  very  few  things,  but 
was  capable  of  excusing  a  great  many.  Still,  as  he 
grew  older,  he  evinced  more  and  more  dislike  of  every- 


138          THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

thing  in  the  shape  of  exaggeration.  He  clothed  his 
ideas  with  a  thousand  delicate  shades  of  expression, 
and  never  pronounced  an  opinion  without  all  sorts  of 
reservations.  These  conversational  habits,  natural  to 
a  finely  trained  mind,  used  to  greatly  irritate  the  dry, 
terse  old  aristocrat,  who  was  never  in  the  least  dis^ 
armed  by  the  moderation  of  an  adversary — quite  the 
contrary!  I  always  foresaw  one  danger.  That  dan- 
ger was  Bonaparte.  My  father  had  not  himself  re- 
tained any  particular  affection  for  his  memory ;  but, 
having  worked  under  his  direction,  he  did  not  like  to 
hear  him  abused,  especially  in  favor  of  the  Bourbons, 
against  whom  he  had  serious  reason  to  feel  resent- 
ment. Monsieur  de  Lessay,  more  of  a  Voltairean  and 
a  Legitimist  than  ever,  now  traced  back  to  Bona- 
parte the  origin  of  every  social,  political,  and  religious 
evil.  Such  being  the  situation,  the  idea  of  Uncle  Vic- 
tor made  me  feel  particularly  uneasy.  This  terrible 
uncle  had  become  absolutely  insufferable  now  that  his 
sister  was  no  longer  there  to  calm  him  down.  The 
harp  of  David  was  broken,  and  Saul  was  wholly  de- 
livered over  to  the  spirit  of  madness.  The  fall  of 
Charles  X.  had  increased  the  audacity  of  the  old 
Napoleonic  veteran,  who  uttered  all  imaginable  bra- 
vadoes. He  no  longer  frequented  our  house,  which 
had  become  too  silent  for  him.  But  sometimes,  at 
the  dinner-hour,  we  would  see  him  suddenly  make  his 
appearance,  all  covered  with  flowers,  like  a  mauso- 
leum. Ordinarily  he  would  sit  down  to  table  with 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         139 

an  oath,  growled  out  from  the  very  bottom  of  his 
chest,  and  brag,  between  every  two  mouthfuls,  of  his 
good  fortune  with  the  ladies  as  a  vieux  brave.  Then, 
when  the  dinner  was  over,  he  would  fold  up  his  nap- 
kin in  the  shape  of  a  bishop's  mitre,  gulp  do\vn  half  a 
decanter  of  brandy,  and  rush  away  with  the  hurried 
air  of  a  man  terrified  at  the  mere  idea  of  remaining 
for  any  length  of  time,  without  drinking,  in  conversa- 
tion with  an  old  philosopher  and  a  young  scholar.  I 
felt  perfectly  sure  that,  if  ever  he  and  Monsieur  de 
Lessay  should  come  together,  all  would  be  lost.  But 
that  day  came,  madame ! 

"The  captain  was  almost  hidden  by  flowers  that 
day,  and  seemed  so  much  like  a  monument  commem- 
orating the  glories  of  the  Empire  that  one  would 
have  liked  to  pass  a  garland  of  immortelles  over  each 
of  his  arms.  He  was  in  an  extraordinarily  good  hu- 
mor; and  the  first  person  to  profit  by  that  good 
humor  was  our  cook  —  for  he  put  his  arm  round 
her  waist  while  she  was  placing  the  roast  on  the 
table. 

"After  dinner  he  pushed  away  the  decanter  pre- 
sented to  him,  observing  that  he  was  going  to  burn 
some  brandy  in  his  coffee  later  on.  I  asked  him 
tremblingly  whether  he  would  not  prefer  to  have  his 
coffee  at  once.  He  was  very  suspicious,  and  not  at 
all  dull  of  comprehension — my  Uncle  Victor.  My 
precipitation  seemed  to  him  in  very  bad  taste ;  for  he 
looked  at  me  in  a  peculiar  way,  and  said, 


140         THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

"'Patience!  my  nephew.  It  isn't  the  business  of 
the  baby  of  the  regiment  to  sound  the  retreat ! 
Devil  take  it !  You  must  be  in  a  great  hurry,  Master 
Pedant,  to  see  if  I've  got  spurs  on  my  boots !' 

"  It  was  evident  the  captain  had  divined  that  I 
wanted  him  to  go.  And  I  knew  him  well  enough  to 
be  sure  that  he  was  going  to  stay.  He  stayed.  The 
least  circumstances  of  that  evening  remain  impressed 
on  my  memory.  My  uncle  was  extremely  jovial. 
The  mere  idea  of  being  in  somebody's  way  was 
enough  to  keep  him  in  good  humor.  He  told  us,  in 
regular  barrack  style,  ma  foil  a  certain  story  about 
a  monk,  a  trumpet,  and  five  bottles  of  Chambertin, 
which  must  have  been  much  enjoyed  in  garrison  so- 
ciety, but  which  I  would  not  venture  to  repeat  to 
you,  Madame,  even  if  I  could  remember  it.  "When 
we  passed  into  the  parlor,  the  captain  called  atten- 
tion to  the  bad  condition  of  our  andirons,  and  learn- 
edly discoursed  on  the  merits  of  rottenstone  as  a 
brass-polisher.  Not  a  word  on. the  subject  of  politics. 
He  was  husbanding  his  forces.  Eight  o'clock  sounded 
from  the  ruins  of  Carthage  on  the  mantelpiece.  It 
was  Monsieur  de  Lessay's  hour.  A  few  moments 
later  he  entered  the  parlor  with  his  daughter.  The 
ordinary  evening  chat  began.  Clementine  sat  down 
and  began  to  work  on  some  embroidery  beside  the 
lamp,  whose  shade  left  her  pretty  head  in  a  soft 
shadow,  and  threw  down  upon  her  fingers  a  radiance 
that  made  them  seem  almost  self-luminous.  Mon- 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTER  BONNARD.        141 

sieur  de  Lessay  spoke  of  a  comet  announced  by  the 
astronomers,  and  developed  some  theories  in  relation 
to  the  subject,  which  however  audacious,  betrayed  at 
least  a  certain  degree  of  intellectual  culture.  My 
father,  who  knew  a  good  deal  about  astronomy,  ad- 
vanced some  sound  ideas  of  his  own,  which  he  ended 
up  with  his  eternal,  '  But  what  do  we  know  about  it, 
after  all?'  In  my  turn  I  cited  the  opinion  of  our 
neighbor  of  the  Observatory — the  great  Arago.  My 
Uncle  Victor  declared  that  comets  had  a  peculiar  in- 
fluence on  the  quality  of  wines,  and  related  in  sup- 
port of  this  view  a  jolly  tavern-story.  I  was  so  de- 
lighted with  the  turn  the  conversation  had  taken  that 
I  did  all  in  my  power  to  maintain  it  in  the  same 
groove,  with  the  help  of  my  most  recent  studies,  by 
a  long  exposition  of  the  chemical  composition  of  those 
nebulous  bodies  which,  although  extending  over  a 
length  of  billions  of  leagues,  could  be  contained  in  a 
small  bottle.  My  father,  a  little  surprised  at  my  un- 
usual eloquence,  watched  me  with  his  peculiar,  placid, 
ironical  smile.  But  one  cannot  always  remain  in 
heaven.  I  spoke,  as  I  looked  at  Clementine,  of  a 
certain  '  comete '  of  diamonds,  which  I  had  been  ad- 
miring in  a  jeweler's  window  the  evening  before.  It 
was  a  most  unfortunate  inspiration  of  mine. 

" '  Ah !  my  nephew,'  cried  Uncle  Victor,  *  that 
comete  of  yours  was  nothing  to  the  one  which  the 
Empress  Josephine  wore  in  her  hair  when  she  came 
to  Strasburg  to  distribute  crosses  to  the  army,' 


142         THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

" '  That  little  Josephine  was  very  fond  of  finery  and 
display,'  observed  Monsieur  de  Lessay,  between  two 
sips  of  coffee.  '  I  do  not  blame  her  for  it ;  she  had 
good  qualities,  though  rather  frivolous  in  character. 
She  was  a  Tascher,  and  she  conferred  a  great  honor 
on  Bonaparte  in  marrying  him.  To  say  a  Tascher 
does  not,  of  course,  mean  a  great  deal ;  but  to  say  a 
Bonaparte  simply  means  nothing  at  all.' 

"  *  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Monsieur  the  Mar- 
quis ?'  demanded  Captain  Victor. 

" '  I  am  not  a  marquis,'  dryly  responded  Monsieur 
de  Lessay ;  '  and  I  mean  simply  that  Bonaparte  would 
have  been  very  well  suited  had  he  married  one  of 
those  cannibal  women  described  by  Captain  Cook  in 
his  voyages — naked,  tattooed,  with  a  ring  in  her  nose — 
devouring  with  delight  putrefied  human  flesh.' 

"  I  had  foreseen  it,  and  in  my  anguish  (O  pitiful 
human  heart !)  my  first  idea  was  about  the  remark- 
able exactness  of  my  anticipations.  I  must  say  that 
the  Captain's  reply  belonged  to  the  sublime  order. 
He  put  his  arms  akimbo,  eyed  Monsieur  de  Lessay 
contemptuously  from  head  to  foot,  and  said, 

" '  Napoleon,  Monsieur  the  Yidame,  had  another 
spouse  besides  Josephine,  another  spouse  besides 
Marie-Louise.  That  companion  you  know  nothing 
of ;  but  I  have  seen  her,  close  to  me.  She  wears  a 
mantle  of  azure  gemmed  with  stars ;  she  is  crowned 
with  laurels;  the  Cross -of -Honor  flames  upon  her 
breast.  Her  name  is  GLORY !' 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        143 

"  Monsieur  de  Lessay  set  his  cup  on  the  mantle- 
piece,  and  quietly  observed, 

" '  Your  Bonaparte  was  a  blackguard !' 

"  My  father  rose  up  calmly,  extended  his  arm,  and 
said  very  softly  to  Monsieur  de  Lessay, 

" '  Whatever  the  man  was  who  died  at  St.  Helena, 
I  worked  for  ten  years  in  his  government,  and  my 
brother-in-law  was  three  times  wounded  under  his 
eagles.  I  beg  of  you,  dear  sir  and  friend,  never  to 
forget  these  facts  in  future.' 

"What  the  sublime  and  burlesque  insolence  of  the 
Captain  could  not  do,  the  courteous  remonstrance  of 
my  father  effected  immediately,  throwing  Monsieur 
de  Lessay  into  a  furious  passion. 

"  *  I  did  forget,'  he  exclaimed,  between  his  set  teeth, 
livid  in  his  rage,  and  fairly  foaming  at  the  mouth ;  '  the 
herring-cask  always  smells  of  herring,  and  when  one 
has  been  in  the  service  of  rascals — 

"  As  he  uttered  the  word,  the  Captain  sprang  at  his 
throat ;  I  am  sure  he  would  have  strangled  him  upon 
the  spot  but  for  his  daughter  and  me. 

"  My  father,  a  little  paler  than  his  wont,  stood  there 
with  his  arms  folded,  and  watched  the  scene  with  a 
look  of  inexpressible  pity.  What  followed  was  still 
more  lamentable — but  why  dwell  further  upon  the 
folly  of  two  old  men.  Finally  I  succeeded  in  separat- 
ing them.  Monsieur  de  Lessay  made  a  sign  to  his 
daughter  and  left  the  the  room.  As  she  was  follow- 
ing him,  I  ran  out  into  the  stairway  after  her. 


144         THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

" '  Mademoiselle,'  I  said  to  her,  wildly,  taking  her 
hand  as  I  spoke, '  I  love  you !  I  love  you !' 

"For  a  moment  she  pressed  my  hand;  her  lips 
opened.  "What  was  it  that  she  was  going  to  say  to 
me  ?  But  suddenly,  lifting  her  eyes  towards  her  father 
ascending  the  stairs,  she  drew  her  hand  away,  and 
made  me  a  gesture  of  farewell. 

"  I  never  saw  her  again.  Her  father  went  to  live  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  Pantheon,  in  an  apartment 
which  he  had  rented  for  the  sale  of  his  historical  atlas. 
He  died  in  it  a  few  months  afterwards  of  an  apoplec- 
tic stroke.  His  daughter,  I  was  told,  retired  to  Caen 
to  live  with  some  aged  relative.  It  was  there  that, 
later  on,  she  married  a  bank-clerk,  the  same  Noel  Al- 
exandre  who  became  so  rich  and  died  so  poor. 

"  As  for  me,  Madame,  I  have  lived  alone,  at  peace 
with  myself ;  my  existence,  equally  exempt  from  great 
pains  and  great  joys,  has  been  tolerably  happy.  But 
for  many  years  I  could  never  see  an  empty  chair  be- 
side my  own  of  a  winter's  evening  without  feeling  a 
sudden  painful  sinking  at  my  heart.  Last  year  I 
learned  from  you,  who  had  known  her,  the  story  of 
her  old  age  and  death.  I  saw  her  daughter  at  your 
house.  I  have  seen  her;  but  I  cannot  yet  say  like 
the  aged  man  of  Scripture,  '  And  now,  0  Lord,  let  thy 
servant  depart  in  peace  /'  For  if  an  old  fellow  like  me 
can  be  of  any  use  to  anybody,  I  would  wish,  with  your 
help,  to  devote  my  last  energies  and  abilities  to  the 
care  of  this  orphan." 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.        145 

I  had  uttered  these  last  words  in  Madame  de  Gabry's 
own  vestibule ;  and  I  was  about  to  take  leave  of  my 
kind  guide  when  she  said  to  me, 

"  My  dear  Monsieur,  I  cannot  help  you  in  this  mat- 
ter as  much  as  I  would  like  to  do.  Jeanne  is  an 
orphan  and  a  minor.  You  cannot  do  anything  for  her 
without  the  authorization  of  her  guardian." 

"  Ah !"  I  exclaimed,  "  I  did  not  have  the  least  idea 
in  the  world  that  Jeanne  had  a  guardian !" 

Madame  de  Gabry  looked  at  me  with  visible  surprise. 
She  had  not  expected  to  find  the  old  man  quite  so  simple. 

She  resumed : 

"The  guardian  of  Jeanne  Alexandre  is  Maitre 
Mouche,  notary  at  Levallois-Perret.  I  am  afraid  you 
will  not  be  able  to  come  to  any  understanding  with 
him ;  for  he  is  a  very  serious  person." 

"  Why !  good  God !"  I  cried,  "  with  what  kind  of 
people  can  you  expect  me  to  have  any  sort  of  under- 
standing at  my  age,  except  serious  persons." 

She  smiled  with  a  sweet  mischievousness — just  like 
my  father  used  to  smile — and  answered : 

"  With  those  who  are  like  you — the  innocent  folks 
who  wear  their  hearts  on  their  sleeves.  Monsieur 
Mouche  is  not  exactly  a  man  of  that  kind.  He  is 
cunning  and  light-fingered.  But  although  I  have  very 
little  liking  for  him,  we  will  go  together  and  see  him, 
if  you  wish,  and  ask  his  permission  to  visit  Jeanne, 
whom  he  has  sent  to  a  boarding-school  at  Les  Ternes, 
where  she  is  very  unhappy." 
10 


146         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"We  agreed  at  once  upon  a  day ;  I  kissed  Madame 
de  Gabry's  hands,  and  we  bid  each  other  good-by. 


From  May  2  to  May  5. 

I  HAVE  seen  him  in  his  office,  Maitre  Mouche,  the 
guardian  of  Jeanne.  Small,  thin,  and  dry ;  his  com- 
plexion looks  as  if  it  was  made  out  of  the  dust  of  his 
pigeon-holes.  He  is  a  spectacled  animal ;  for  to  im- 
agine him  without  his  spectacles  would  be  impossible. 
I  have  heard  him  speak,  this  Maitre  Mouche ;  he  has 
a  voice  like  a  tin  rattle,  and  he  uses  choice  phrases ; 
but  I  would  have  been  better  pleased  if  he  had  not 
chosen  his  phrases  so  carefully.  I  have  observed 
him,  this  Maitre  Mouche  ;  he  is  very  ceremonious,  and 
watches  his  visitors  slyly  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

Maitre  Mouche  is  quite  pleased,  he  informs  us ;  he 
is  delighted  to  find  we  have  taken  such  an  interest  in 
his  ward.  But  he  does  not  think  we  are  placed  in 
this  world  just  to  amuse  ourselves.  No :  he  does  not 
believe  it ;  and  I  am  free  to  acknowledge  that  any- 
body in  his  company  is  likely  to  reach  the  same  con- 
clusion, so  little  is  he  capable  of  inspiring  joyfulness. 
He  fears  that  it  would  be  giving  his  dear  ward  a  false 
and  pernicious  idea  of  life  to  allow  her  too  much  en- 
joyment. It  is  for  that  reason  that  he  requests  Ma- 
dame de  Gabry  not  to  invite  the  young  girl  to  her 
house  but  at  very  long  intervals. 

We  left  the  dusty  notary  and  his  dusty  study  with 


THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD.         147 

a  permit  in  due  form  (everything  which  issues  from 
the  office  of  Maitre  Mouche  is  in  due  form)  to  visit 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  Alexandre  on  the  first  Thursday 
of  each  month  at  Mademoiselle  Pref  ere's  private  school, 
Eue  Demours,  Aux  Ternes. 

The  first  Thursday  in  May  I  set  out  to  pay  a  visit 
to  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  whose  establishment  I  dis- 
cerned from  afar  off  by  a  big  sign,  painted  with  blue 
letters.  That  blue  tint  was  the  first  indication  I  re- 
ceived of  Mademoiselle  Prefere's  character,  which  I 
was  able  to  see  more  of  later  on.  A  scared-looking 
servant  took  my  card,  and  abandoned  me  without  one 
word  of  hope  at  the  door  of  a  chilly  parlor,  full  of 
that  stale  odor  peculiar  to  the  dining-rooms  of  educa- 
tional establishments.  The  floor  of  this  parlor  had 
been  waxed  with  such  pitiless  energy,  that  I  remained 
for  a  while  in  distress  upon  the  threshold.  But  hap- 
pily observing  that  little  strips  of  woollen  carpet  had 
been  scattered  over  the  floor  in  front  of  each  horse- 
hair chair,  I  succeeded,  by  cautiously  stepping  from 
one  carpet-island  to  another,  in  reaching  the  angle  of 
the  mantlepiece,  where  I  sat  down  quite  out  of  breath. 

Over  the  mantlepiece,  in  a  large  gilded  frame,  was  a 
written  document,  entitled,  in  flamboyant  Gothic  letter- 
ing, Tableau  cPHonneur,  with  a  long  array  of  names 
underneath,  among  which  I  did  not  have  the  pleasure 
of  finding  that  of  Jeanne  Alexandre.  After  having 
read  over  several  times  the  names  of  those  girl-pupils 
who  had  thus  made  themselves  honored  in  the  eyes 


148        THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

of  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  I  began  to  feel  uneasy  at  not 
hearing  any  one  coming.  Mademoiselle  Prefere  would 
certainly  have  succeeded  in  establishing  the  absolute 
silence  of  the  interstellar  spaces  throughout  her  peda- 
gogical domains,  had  it  not  been  that  the  sparrows 
had  chosen  her  yard  to  assemble  in  by  legions,  and 
chirp  at  the  top  of  their  voices.  It  was  a  pleasure  to 
hear  them.  But  there  was  no  way  of  seeing  them — 
through  the  ground-glass  windows.  I  had  to  content 
myself  with  the  sights  of  the  parlor,  decorated  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  on  all  of  its  four  walls,  with  drawings 
executed  by  the  pupils  of  the  institution.  There  were 
Yestals,  flowers,  thatched  cottages,  column  -  capitals, 
and  an  enormous  head  of  Tatius,  -King  of  the  Sabines, 
bearing  the  signature  Estelle  Mouton. 

I  had  already  passed  some  time  in  admiring  the 
energy  with  which  Mademoiselle  Mouton  had  deline- 
ated the  bushy  eyebrows  and  the  fierce  gaze  of  the  an- 
tique warrior,  when  a  sound,  faint  like  the  rustling 
of  a  dead  leaf  moved  by  the  wind,  caused  me  to  turn 
my  head.  It  was  not  a  dead  leaf  at  all — it  was  Made- 
moiselle Prefere.  With  hands  joined  before  her,  she 
came  gliding  over  the  mirror-polish  of  that  wonderful 
floor  as  the  Saints  of  the  "Golden  Legend"  were 
wont  to  glide  over  the  crystal  surface  of  the  waters. 
But  upon  any  other  occasion,  I  am  sure,  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  would  not  have  made  me  think  in  the  least 
about  those  virgins  dear  to  mystical  fancy.  Her  face 
rather  gave  me  the  idea  of  a  russet-apple  preserved 


THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD.         149 

for  a  whole  winter  in  an  attic  by  some  economical 
housekeeper.  Her  shoulders  were  covered  with  a 
fringed  pelerine,  which  had  nothing  at  all  remarkable 
about  it,  but  which  she  wore  as  if  it  were  a  sacerdotal 
vestment,  or  the  symbol  of  some  high  civic  function. 

I  explained  to  her  the  purpose  of  my  visit,  and  gave 
her  my  letter  of  introduction. 

"Ah!  —  so  you  saw  Monsieur  Mouche!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Is  his  health  very  good  ?  He  is  the  most 
upright  of  men,  the  most — 

She  did  not  finish  the  phrase,  but  raised  her  eyes  to 
the  ceiling.  My  own  followed  the  direction  of  their 
gaze,  and  observed  a  little  spiral  of  paper  lace,  sus- 
pended from  the  place  of  the  chandelier,  which  was 
apparently  destined,  so  far  as  I  could  discover,  to  at- 
tract the  flies  away  from  the  gilded  mirror-frames  and 
the  Tableau  cPIionneur. 

"I  have  met  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  Alexandre,"  I 
observed,  "  at  the  residence  of  Madame  de  Gabry,  and 
had  reason  to  appreciate  the  excellent  character  and 
quick  intelligence  of  the  young  girl.  As  I  used  to 
know  her  parents  very  well,  the  friendship  which  I 
felt  for  them  naturally  inclines  me  to  take  an  interest 
in  her." 

Mademoiselle  Prefere,  in  lieu  of  making  any  reply, 
sighed  profoundly,  pressed  her  mysterious  pelerine  to 
her  heart,  and  again  contemplated  the  paper  spiral. 

At  last  she  observed, 

"  Since  you  were  once  the  friend  of  Monsieur  and 


150         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

Madame  Alexandre,  I  hope  and  trust  that,  like  Mon- 
sieur Mouche  and  myself,  you  deplore  those  crazy 
speculations  which  led  them  to  ruin,  and  reduced  their 
daughter  to  absolute  poverty !" 

I  thought  to  myself,  on  hearing  these  words,  how 
very  wrong  it  is  to  be  unlucky,  and  how  unpardonable 
such  an  error  on  the  part  of  those  previously  in  a 
position  worthy  of  envy.  Their  fall  at  once  avenges 
and  flatters  us ;  and  we  are  wholly  pitiless. 

After  having  answered,  very  frankly,  that  I  knew 
nothing  whatever  about  the  history  of  the  bank,  I 
asked  the  schoolmistress  if  she  was  satisfied  with 
Mademoiselle  Alexandre. 

"That  child  is  indomitable!"  cried  Mademoiselle 
Prefere. 

And  she  assumed  an  attitude  of  lofty  resignation, 
to  symbolize  the  difficult  situation  she  was  placed  in 
by  a  pupil  so  hard  to  train.  Then,  with  more  calm- 
ness of  manner,  she  added : 

"  The  young  person  is  not  unintelligent.  But  she 
cannot  resign  herself  to  learn  things  by  principles." 

What  a  strange  old  maid  this  Mademoiselle  Prefere 
is!  She  walks  without  lifting  her  legs,  and  speaks 
without  moving  her  lips !  Without,  however,  consider- 
ing her  peculiarities  for  more  than  a  reasonable  in- 
stant, I  replied  that  principles  were,  no  doubt,  very 
excellent  things,  and  that  I  could  trust  myself  to  her 
judgment  in  regard  to  their  value ;  but  that,  after  all, 
when  one  had  learned  something,  it  made  very  little 


THE   CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD.         151 

difference  what  method  had  been  followed  in  the  learn- 
ing of  it. 

Mademoiselle  made  a  slow  gesture  of  dissent.  Thus, 
with  a  sigh,  she  declared, 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  !  those  who  do  not  understand  edu- 
cational methods  are  apt  to  have  very  false  ideas  on 
these  subjects.  I  am  certain  they  express  their  opin- 
ions with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world ;  but  they 
would  do  better,  a  great  deal  better,  to  leave  all  such 
questions  to  competent  people." 

I  did  not  attempt  to  argue  further ;  and  simply 
asked  her  whether  I  could  see  Mademoiselle  Alex- 
andre  at  once. 

She  looked  at  her  pelerine,  as  if  trying  to  read 
in  the  entanglement  of  its  fringes,  as  in  a  conjuring- 
book,  what  sort  of  answer  she  ought  to  make ;  then 
said, 

"Mademoiselle  Alexandre  has  a  penance  to  per- 
form, and  a  class-lesson  to  give ;  but  I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  let  you  put  yourself  to  the  trouble  of  coming 
here  all  to  no  purpose.  I  am  going  to  send  for  her. 
Only  first  allow  me,  Monsieur — as  it  is  our  custom — 
to  put  your  name  on  the  visitors'  register." 

She  sat  down  at  the  table,  opened  a  large  copy- 
book, and,  taking  out  Maitre  Mouche's  letter  again 
from  under  her  pelerine,  where  she  had  placed  it, 
looked  at  it,  and  began  to  write. 

"  '  Bonnard ' — with  a  d,  is  it  not  ?"  she  asked.  "  Ex- 
cuse me  for  being  so  particular;  but  my  opinion  is 


152        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

that  proper  names  have  an  orthography.  We  have 
dictation-lessons  in  proper  names,  Monsieur,  at  this 
school — historical  proper  names,  of  course !" 

After  I  had  written  down  my  name  in  a  running 
hand,  she  inquired  whether  she  should  not  put  down 
after  it  my  profession,  title,  quality  —  such  as  "re- 
tired merchant,"  "employe,"  "independent  gentle- 
man," or  something  else.  There  was  a  column  in  her 
register  expressly  for  that  purpose. 

"  My  goodness,  Madame !"  I  said,  "  if  you  must  ab- 
solutely fill  that  column  of  yours,  put  down  '  Member 
of  the  Institute.' " 

It  was  still  Mademoiselle  Prefere's  pelerine  I  saw 
before  me ;  but  it  was  not  Mademoiselle  Prefere  now 
who  wore  it ;  it  was  a  totally  different  person,  oblig- 
ing, gracious,  caressing,  radiant,  happy.  Her  eyes 
smiled ;  the  little  wrinkles  of  her  face  (there  were  a 
vast  number  of  them !)  also  smiled ;  her  mouth  smiled 
likewise,  but  only  on  one  side.  I  discovered  afterwards 
that  was  her  best  side.  She  spoke:  her  voice  had 
also  changed  with  her  manner ;  it  was  now  sweet  as 
honey. 

"  You  said,  Monsieur,  that  our  dear  Jeanne  was  very 
intelligent.  I  discovered  the  same  thing  myself,  and 
I  am  proud  of  being  able  to  agree  with  you.  This 
young  girl  has  really  made  me  feel  a  great  deal  of 
interest  in  her.  She  has  what  I  call  a  happy  dispo- 
sition. .  .  .  But  excuse  me  for  thus  drawing  upon  your 
valuable  time." 


TEE  CRIME  OF  SYLVE8TRE  BONNARD.        153 

She  summoned  the  servant-girl,  who  looked  much 
more  hurried  and  scared  than  before,  and  who  van- 
ished with  the  order  to  go  and  tell  Mademoiselle  Alex- 
andre  that  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard,  Member  of 
the  Institute,  was  waiting  to  see  her  in  the  parlor. 

Mademoiselle  Prefere  had  barely  time  to  confide  to 
me  that  she  had  the  most  profound  respect  for  all  de- 
cisions of  the  Institute — whatever  they  might  be — 
when  Jeanne  appeared,  out  of  breath,  red  as  a  poppy, 
with  her  eyes  very  wide  open,  and  her  arms  dangling 
helplessly  at  her  sides — charming  in  her  artless  awk- 
wardness. 

"What  a  state  you  are  in,  my  dear  child!"  mur- 
mured Mademoiselle  Prefere,  with  maternal  sweet- 
ness, as  she  arranged  the  girl's  collar. 

Jeanne  certainly  did  present  an  odd  aspect.  Her 
hair  combed  back,  and  imperfectly  held  by  a  net  from 
which  loose  curls  were  escaping ;  her  slender  arms, 
sheathed  down  to  the  elbows  in  lustring  sleeves ;  her 
hands,  which  she  did  not  seem  to  know  what  to  do 
with,  all  red  with  chilblains ;  her  dress,  much  too  short, 
revealing  that  she  had  on  stockings  much  too  large 
for  her,  and  shoes  worn  down  at  the  heel ;  and  a  skip- 
ping-rope tied  round  her  waist  in  lieu  of  a  belt, — all 
combined  to  lend  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  an  appearance 
the  reverse  of  presentable. 

"  Oh,  you  crazy  girl !"  sighed  Mademoiselle  Prefere, 
who  now  seemed  no  longer  like  a  mother,  but  rather 
like  an  elder  sister. 


154         TUB  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

Then  she  suddenly  left  the  room,  gliding  like  a 
shadow  over  the  polished  floor. 

I  said  to  Jeanne, 

"  Sit  down,  Jeanne,  and  talk  to  me  like  you  would 
to  a  friend.  Are  you  not  better  satisfied  here  now 
than  you  were  last  year  ?" 

She  hesitated ;  then  answered  with  a  good-natured 
smile  of  resignation, 

"  Not  much  better." 

I  asked  her  to  tell  me  about  her  school  life.  She 
began  at  once  to  enumerate  all  her  different  studies — 
piano,  style,  chronology  of  the  Kings  of  France,  sew- 
ing, drawing,  catechism,  deportment.  ...  I  could  never 
remember  them  all !  She  still  held  in  her  hands,  all 
unconsciously,  the  two  ends  of  her  skipping-rope,  and 
she  raised  and  lowered  them  regularly  while  making 
her  enumeration.  Then  all  at  once  she  became  con- 
scious of  what  she  was  doing,  blushed,  stammered, 
and  became  so  confused  that  I  had  to  renounce  my 
desire  to  know  the  full  programme  of  study  adopted 
in  the  Pref  ere  Institution. 

After  having  questioned  Jeanne  on  various  matters, 
and  obtained  only  the  vaguest  answers,  I  perceived 
that  her  young  mind  was  totally  absorbed  by  the 
skipping-rope,  and  I  entered  bravely  into  that  grave 
subject. 

"  So  you  have  been  skipping?"  I  said.  "  It  is  a  very 
nice  amusement,  but  one  that  you  must  not  exert  your- 
self too  much  at ;  for  any  excessive  exercise  of  that 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        155 

kind  might  seriously  injure  your  health,  and  I  should 
be  very  much  grieved  about  it,  Jeanne — I  should  be 
very  much  grieved,  indeed !" 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Monsieur,"  the  young  girl  said, 
"  to  have  come  to  see  me  and  talk  to  me  like  this.  I 
did  not  think  about  thanking  you  when  I  came  in, 
because  I  was  too  much  surprised.  Have  you  seen 
Madame  de  Gabry  ?  Please  tell  me  something  about 
her,  Monsieur." 

"  Madame  de  Gabry,"  I  answered,  "  is  very  well. 
I  can  only  tell  you  about  her,  Jeanne,  what  an  old 
gardener  once  said  of  the  lady  of  the  castle,  his  mis- 
tress, when  somebody  anxiously  inquired  about  her : 
'  Madame  is  in  her  road.'  Yes,  Madame  de  Gabry  is 
in  her  own  road  ;  and  you  know,  Jeanne,  what  a  good 
road  it  is,  and  how  steadily  she  can  walk  upon  it.  I 
went  out  with  her  the  other  day,  very,  very  far  away 
from  the  house ;  and  we  talked  about  you.  We  talked 
about  you,  my  child,  at  your  mother's  grave." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  said  Jeanne. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  she  began  to  cry. 

I  felt  too  much  reverence  for  those  generous  tears 
to  attempt  in  any  way  to  check  the  emotion  that  had 
evoked  them.  But  in  a  little  while,  as  the  girl  wiped 
her  eyes,  I  asked  her, 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me,  Jeanne,  why  you  were  think- 
ing so  much  about  that  skipping-rope  a  little  while 
ago?" 

"Why,  indeed  I  will,  Monsieur.    It  was  only  be- 


156         THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

cause  I  had  no  right  to  come  into  the  parlor  with  a 
skipping-rope.  You  know,  of  course,  that  I  am  past 
the  age  for  playing  at  skipping.  But  when  the  ser- 
vant said  there  was  an  old  gentleman  ...  oh !  ...  I 
mean  .  .  .  that  a  gentleman  was  Avaiting  for  me  in 
the  parlor,  I  was  making  the  little  girls  jump.  Then 
I  tied  the  rope  round  my  waist  in  a  hurry,  so  that  it 
might  not  get  lost.  It  was  wrong.  But  I  have  not 
been  in  the  habit  of  having  many  people  come  to  see 
me.  And  Mademoiselle  Prefere  never  lets  us  off  if  we 
commit  any  breach  of  deportment :  so  I  know  she  is  go- 
ing to  punish  me,  and  I  am  very  sorry  about  it."  .  .  . 

"  That  is  too  bad,  Jeanne !" 

She  became  very  grave,  and  said, 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  it  is  too  bad ;  because  when  I  am 
punished  myself,  I  have  no  more  authority  over  the 
little  girls." 

I  did  not  at  once  fully  understand  the  nature  of  this 
unpleasantness ;  but  Jeanne  explained  to  me  that,  as 
she  was  charged  by  Mademoiselle  Prefere  with  the 
duties  of  taking  care  of  the  youngest  class,  of  washing 
and  dressing  the  children,  of  teaching  them  how  to 
behave,  how  to  sew,  how  to  say  the  alphabet,  of  show- 
ing them  how  to  play,  and,  finally,  of  putting  them  to 
bed  at  the  close  of  the  day,  she  could  not  make  herself 
obeyed  by  those  turbulent  little  folks  on  the  days  she 
was  condemned  to  wear  a  night-cap  in  the  class-room, 
or  to  eat  her  meals  standing  up,  from  a  plate  turned 
upside  down. 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.         157 

Having  secretly  admired  the  punishments  devised 
by  the  Lady  of  the  Enchanted  Pelerine,  I  responded, 

"Then,  if  I  understand  you  rightly,  Jeanne,  you 
are  at  once  a  pupil  here  and  a  mistress  ?  It  is  a  con- 
dition of  existence  very  common  in  the  world.  You 
are  punished,  and  you  punish  ?" 

"Oh,  Monsieur!"  she  exclaimed.  "No!  I  never 
punish !" 

"Then,  I  suspect,"  said  I,  "that  your  indulgence 
gets  you  many  scoldings  from  Mademoiselle  Pref  ere  ?" 

She  smiled,  and  winked. 

Then  I  said  to  her  that  the  troubles  in  which  we 
often  involve  ourselves,  by  trying  to  act  according  to 
our  conscience  and  to  do  the  best  we  can,  are  never  of 
the  sort  that  totally  dishearten  and  weary  us,  but  are, 
on  the  contrary,  wholesome  trials.  This  sort  of  phi- 
losophy touched  her  very  little.  She  even  appeared 
totally  unmoved  by  my  moral  exhortations.  But  was 
not  this  quite  natural  on  her  part  ? — and  ought  I  not 
to  have  remembered  that  it  is  only  those  no  longer 
innocent  who  can  find  pleasure  in  the  systems  of 
moralists?  ...  I  had  at  least  good  sense  enough  to 
cut  short  my  sermonizing. 

"  Jeanne,"  I  said,  "  you  were  asking  a  moment  ago 
about  Madame  Gabry.  Let  us  talk  about  that  Fairy 
of  yours.  She  was  very  prettily  made.  Do  you  do 
any  modelling  in  wax  now  ?" 

"  I  have  not  a  bit  of  wax,"  she  exclaimed,  wringing 
her  hands — "  no  wax  at  all  I" 


158         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"  No  wax !"  I  cried — "  in  a  republic  of  busy  bees  ?t 

She  laughed. 

"  And,  then,  you  see,  Monsieur,  my  figurines,  as  yoiv 
call  them,  are  not  in  Mademoiselle  Prefere's  pro- 
gramme. But  I  had  begun  to  make  a  very  small 
Saint-George  for  Madame  de  Gabry — a  tiny  little 
Saint-George,  with  a  golden  cuirass.  Is  not  that 
right,  Monsieur  Bonnard  —  to  give  Saint-George  a 
gold  cuirass  ?" 

"  Quite  right,  Jeanne ;  but  what  became  of  it  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  I  kept  it  in  my  pocket 
because  I  had  no  other  place  to  put  it,  and — and  I  sat 
down  on  it  by  mistake." 

She  drew  out  of  her  pocket  a  little  wax  figure, 
which  had  been  squeezed  out  of  all  resemblance  to 
human  form,  and  of  which  the  dislocated  limbs  were 
only  attached  to  the  body  by  their  wire  framework. 
At  the  sight  of  her  hero  thus  marred,  she  was  seized 
at  once  with  compassion  and  gayety.  The  latter  feel- 
ing obtained  the  mastery,  and  she  burst  into  a  clear 
laugh,  which,  however,  stopped  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
begun. 

Mademoiselle  Pr6fere  stood  at  the  parlor  door,  smil- 
ing. 

"  That  dear  child !"  sighed  the  schoolmistress,  in  her 
tenderest  tone.  "  I  am  afraid  she  will  tire  you.  And, 
then,  your  time  is  so  precious !" 

I  begged  Mademoiselle  Prefere  to  dismiss  that  illu- 
sion, and,  rising  to  take  my  leave,  I  took  from  my 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.         159 

pocket  some  chocolate-cakes  and  sweets  which  I  had 
brought  with  me. 

"  That  is  so  nice !"  said  Jeanne ;  "  there  will  be 
enough  to  go  round  the  whole  school." 

The  Lady  of  the  Pelerine  intervened. 

"  Mademoiselle  Alexandre,"  she  said,  "  thank  Mon- 
sieur for  his  generosity." 

Jeanne  looked  at  her  for  an  instant  in  a  sullen  way ; 
then,  turning  to  me,  said  with  remarkable  firmness, 

"  Monsieur,  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness  in  com- 
ing to  see  me." 

"Jeanne,"  I  said,  pressing  both  her  hands,  "re- 
main always  a  good,  truthful,  brave  girl.  Good- 
by." 

As  she  left  the  room  with  her  packages  of  chocolate 
and  confectionery,  she  happened  to  strike  the  handles 
of  her  skipping-rope  against  the  back  of  a  chair.  Mad- 
emoiselle Prefere,  full  of  indignation,  pressed  both 
hands  over  her  heart,  under  her  pelerine ;  and  I  almost 
expected  to  see  her  give  up  her  scholastic  ghost. 

When  we  found  ourselves  alone,  she  recovered  her 
composure ;  and  I  must  say,  without  considering  my- 
self thereby  flattered,  that  she  smiled  upon  me  with 
one  whole  side  of  her  face. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  I  said,  taking  advantage  of  her 
good  humor,  "  I  noticed  that  Jeanne  Alexandre  looks 
a  little  pale.  You  know  better  than  I  how  much  con- 
sideration and  care  a  young  girl  requires  at  her  age. 
It  would  only  be  doing  you  an  injustice  by  implica- 


160         THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTBE  BONNARD. 

tion  to  recommend  her  still  more  earnestly  to  your 
vigilance." 

These  words  seemed  to  ravish  her  with  delight. 
She  lifted  her  eyes,  as  in  ecstasy,  to  the  paper  spirals 
of  the  ceiling,  and,  clasping  her  hands,  exclaimed, 

"  How  well  these  eminent  men  know  the  art  of  con- 
sidering the  most  trifling  details !" 

I  called  her  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  health  of 
a  young  girl  was  not  a  trifling  detail,  and  made  my 
farewell  bow.  But  she  stopped  me  on  the  threshold 
to  say  to  me,  very  confidentially, 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  Monsieur.  I  am  a  woman, 
and  I  love  glory.  I  cannot  conceal  from  you  the  fact 
that  I  feel  myself  greatly  honored  by  the  presence  of 
a  Member  of  the  Institute  in  my  humble  institution." 

I  duly  excused  the  weakness  of  Mademoiselle  Pre- 
fere;  and,  thinking  only  of  Jeanne,  with  the  blind- 
ness of  egotism,  kept  asking  myself  all  along  the  road, 
"  What  are  we  going  to  do  with  this  child  2" 


June  3. 

I  HAD  escorted  to  the  Cime'tiere  des  Marnes  that  day 
a  very  aged  colleague  of  mine  who,  to  use  the  words 
of  Goethe,  had  consented  to  die.  The  great  Goethe, 
whose  own  vital  force  was  something  extraordinary, 
actually  believed  that  one  never  dies  until  one  really 
wants  to  die — that  is  to  say,  when  all  those  energies 
which  resist  dissolution,  and  the  sum  of  which  make 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.         161 

up  life  itself,  have  been  totally  destroyed.  In  other 
words  he  believed  that  people  only  die  when  it  is  no 
longer  possible  for  them  to  live.  Good !  it  is  merely  a 
question  of  properly  understanding  one  another ;  and 
when  fully  comprehended,  the  magnificent  idea  of 
Goethe  only  brings  us  quietly  back  to  the  song  of  La 
Palisse. 

"Well,  my  excellent  colleague  had  consented  to  die 
—thanks  to  several  successive  attacks  of  extremely 
persuasive  apoplexy — the  last  of  which  proved  unan- 
swerable. I  had  been  very  little  acquainted  with  him 
during  his  lifetime;  but  it  seems  that  I  became  his 
friend  the  moment  he  was  dead,  for  our  colleagues 
assured  me  in  the  most  serious  manner,  with  deeply 
sympathetic  countenances,  that  I  should  act  as  one  of 
the  pall-bearers,  and  deliver  an  address  over  the  tomb. 

After  having  read  very  badly  a  short  address  I  had 
written  as  well  as  I  could— which  is  not  saying  much 
for  it — I  started  out  for  a  walk  in  the  woods  of  Ville- 
d'Avray,  and  followed,  without  leaning  too  much  on 
the  Captain's  cane,  a  shaded  path  on  which  the  sun- 
light fell,  through  foliage,  in*  little  disks  of  gold.  Nev- 
er had  the  scent  of  grass  and  fresh  leaves, — never  had 
the  beauty  of  the  sky  over  the  trees,  and  the  serene 
might  of  noble  vegetal  forms,  so  deeply  affected  my 
senses  and  all  my  being;  and  the  pleasure  I  felt  in 
that  silence,  broken  only  by  faintest  tinkling  sounds, 
was  at  once  of  the  senses  and  of  the  soul. 

I  sat  down  in  the  shade  of  the  roadside  under  a 
11 


162         THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

clunrp  of  young  oaks.  And  there  I  made  a  promise 
to  myself  not  to  die,  or  at  least  not  to  consent  to  die, 
before  I  should  be  again  able  to  sit  down  under  an 
oak,  where — in  the  great  peace  of  the  open  conntry — 
I  could  meditate  on  the  nature  of  the  soul  and  the 
ultimate  destiny  of  man.  A  bee,  whose  brown  cor- 
sage gleamed  in  the  sun  like  an  armor  of  old-gold, 
came  to  light  upon  a  mallow-flower  close  by  me — 
darkly  rich  in  color,  and  fully  opened  upon  its  tufted 
stalk.  It  was  certainly  not  the  first  time  I  had  wit- 
nessed so  common  an  incident ;  but  it  was  the  first 
time  that  I  watched  it  with  such  comprehensive  and 
friendly  curiosity.  I  could  discern  that  there  were  all 
sorts  of  sympathies  between  the  insect  and  the  flower 
— a  thousand  singular  little  relationships  which  I  had 
never  before  even  suspected. 

Satiated  with  nectar,  the  insect  rose  and  buzzed 
away  in  a  straight  line,  while  I  lifted  myself  up  as 
best  I  could,  and  readjusted  myself  upon  my  legs. 

"  Adieu !"  I  said  to  the  flower  and  to  the  bee. 
"Adieu!  Heaven  grant  I  may  live  long  enough  to 
discover  the  secret  of  your  harmonies.  I  am  very 
tired.  But  man  is  so  made  that  he  can  only  find 
relaxation  from  one  kind  of  labor  by  taking  up  an- 
other. The  flowers  and  insects  will  give  me  that 
relaxation,  with  God's  will,  after  my  long  researches 
in  philology  and  diplomatics.  How  full  of  meaning 
is  that  old  myth  of  Antaeus!  I  have  touched  the 
Earth  and  I  am  a  new  man;  and  now,  at  seventy 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.         163 

years  of  age,  new  feelings  of  curiosity  take  birth  in 
my  mind,  even  as  young  shoots  sometimes  spring  up 
from  the  hollow  trunk  of  an  aged  oak !" 


June  4- 

I  LIKE  to  look  out  of  my  window  at  the  Seine  and 
its  quays  on  those  soft  gray  mornings  which  give  such 
an  infinite  tenderness  of  tint  to  everything.  I  have 
seen  that  azure  sky  which  flings  so  luminous  a  calm 
over  the  Bay  of  Naples.  But  our  Parisian  sky  is  more 
animated,  more  kindly,  more  spiritual.  It  smiles, 
threatens,  caresses — takes  an  aspect  of  melancholy  or 
a  look  of  merriment  like  a  human  gaze.  At  this  mo- 
ment it  is  pouring  down  a  very  gentle  light  on  the 
men  and  beasts  of  the  city  as  they  accomplish  their 
daily  tasks.  Over  there,  on  the  opposite  bank,  the 
stevedores  of  the  Port  Saint-Nicholas  are  unloading  a 
cargo  of  cows'  horns ;  while  two  men  standing  on  a 
gangway  are  tossing  sugar-loaves  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  thence  to  somebody  in  the  hold  of  a  steamer.  On 
the  north  quay,  the  cab-horses,  standing  in  a  line  un- 
der the  shade  of  the  plane-trees,  each  with  its  head 
in  a  nose-bag,  are  quietly  munching  their  oats,  while 
the  rubicund  drivers  are  drinking  at  the  counter  of 
the  wine-seller  opposite,  but  all  the  while  keeping  a 
sharp  lookout  for  early  customers. 

The  dealers  in  second-hand  books  put  their  boxes  on 
the  parapet.  These  good  retailers  of  Mind,  who  are 


164         TEE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

always  in  the  open  air,  with  blouses  loose  to  the 
breeze,  have  become  so  weatherbeaten  by  the  wind, 
the  rain,  the  frost,  the  snow,  the  fog,  and  the  great 
sun,  that  they  end  by  looking  very  much  like  the  old 
statues  of  cathedrals.  They  are  all  friends  of  mine, 
and  I  scarcely  ever  pass  by  their  boxes  without  pick- 
ing out  of  one  of  them  some  old  book  which  I  had 
always  been  in  need  of  up  to  that  very  moment,  with- 
out any  suspicion  on  my  part  of  the  fact. 

Then  on  my  return  home  I  have  to  endure  the  out- 
cries of  my  housekeeper,  who  accuses  me  of  bursting 
all  my  pockets  and  filling  the  house  with  waste  paper 
to  attract  the  rats.  Therese  is  wise  about  that,  and  it 
is  because  she  is  wise  that  I  do  not  listen  to  her ;  for 
in  spite  of  my  tranquil  mien,  I  have  always  preferred 
the  folly  of  the  passions  to  the  wisdom  of  indifference. 
But  just  because  my  own  passions  are  not  of  that  sort 
which  burst  out  with  violence  to  devastate  and  kill, 
the  common  mind  is  not  aware  of  their  existence. 
Nevertheless,  I  am  greatly  moved  by  them  at  times, 
and  it  has  more  than  once  been  my  fate  to  lose  my 
sleep  for  the  sake  of  a  few  pages  written  by  some  for- 
gotten monk  or  printed  by  some  humble  apprentice  of 
Peter  Schoeffer.  And  if  these  fierce  enthusiasms  are 
slowly  being  quenched  in  me,  it  is  only  because  I  am 
being  slowly  quenched  myself.  Our  passions  are  our- 
selves. My  old  books  are  Me.  I  am  just  as  old  and 
thumbworn  as  they  are. 

A  light  breeze  sweeps  away,  along  with  the  dust  of 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.         165 

the  pavements,  the  winged  seeds  of  the  plane-trees, 
and  the  fragments  of  hay  dropped  from  the  mouths 
of  the  horses.  The  dust  is  nothing  remarkable  in 
itself ;  but  as  I  watch  it  flying,  I  remember  a  mo- 
ment in  my  childhood  when  watching  just  such  a 
whirl  of  dust;  and  my  old  Parisian  soul  is  much 
affected  by  that  sudden  recollection.  All  that  I  see 
from  my  window — that  horizon  which  extends  to  the 
left  as  far  as  the  hills  of  Chaillot,  and  enables  me  to 
distinguish  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  like  a  die  of  stone, 
the  Seine,  river  of  glory,  and  its  bridges,  the  ash-trees 
of  the  terrace  of  the  Tuileries,  the  Louvre  of  the  Re- 
naissance, cut  and  graven  like  goldsmith-work ;  and 
on  my  right,  towards  the  Pont-Neuf  (pons  LuteticB 
novus  dicfais,  as  it  is  named  on  old  engravings),  all 
the  old  and  venerable  part  of  Paris,  with  its  towers 
and  spires : — all  that  is  my  life,  it  is  myself ;  and  I 
would  be  nothing  but  for  all  those  things  which  are 
thus  reflected  in  me,  through  my  thousand  varying 
shades  of  thought,  inspiring  me  and  animating  me. 
That  is  why  I  love  Paris  with  an  immense  love. 

And  nevertheless  I  am  weary,  and  I  know  that  there 
can  be  no  rest  for  me  in  the  heart  of  this  great  city 
which  thinks  so  much,  which  has  taught  me  to  think, 
and  which  forever  urges  me  to  think  more.  And  how 
avoid  being  excited  among  all  these  books  which  in- 
cessantly tempt  my  curiosity  without  ever  satisfying 
it  ?  At  one  moment  it  is  a  date  I  have  to  look  for ; 
at  another  it  is  the  name  of  a  place  I  have  to  make 


166         THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

sure  of,  or  some  quaint  term  of  which  it  is  important 
to  determine  the  exact  meaning.  "Words  ? — why,  yes ! 
words.  As  a  philologist,  I  am  their  sovereign ;  they 
are  my  subjects,  and,  like  a  good  king,  I  devote  my 
whole  life  to  them.  But  will  I  not  be  able  to  abdicate 
some  day?  I  have  an  idea  that  there  is  somewhere 
or  other,  quite  far  from  here,  a  certain  little  cottage 
where  I  could  enjoy  the  quiet  I  so  much  need,  while 
awaiting  that  day  in  which  a  greater  quiet  —  that 
which  can  be  never  broken  —  shall  come  to  wrap  me 
all  about.  I  dream  of  a  bench  before  the  threshold, 
and  of  fields  spreading  away  out  of  sight.  But  I  must 
have  a  fresh  smiling  young  face  beside  me,  to  reflect 
and  concentrate  all  that  freshness  of  nature.  I  could 
then  imagine  myself  a  grandfather,  and  all  the  long 
void  of  my  life  would  be  filled.  .  .  . 

I  am  not  a  violent  man,  and  yet  I  become  easily 
vexed,  and  all  my  works  have  caused  me  quite  as  much 
pain  as  pleasure.  And  I  do  not  know  how  it  is  that 
I  still  keep  thinking  about  that  very  conceited  and 
very  inconsiderate  impertinence  which  my  young 
friend  of  the  Luxembourg  took  the  liberty  to  utter 
about  me  some  three  months  ago.  I  do  not  call  him 
"  friend  "  in  irony,  for  I  love  studious  youth  with  all 
its  temerities  and  imaginative  eccentricities.  Still, 
my  young  friend  certainly  went  beyond  all  bounds. 
Master  Ambroise  Pare,  who  was  the  first  to  attempt 
the  ligature  of  arteries,  and  who,  having  commenced 
his  profession  at  a  time  when  surgery  was  only  per- 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.        167 

formed  by  quack  barbers,  nevertheless  succeeded  in 
lifting  the  science  to  the  high  place  it  now  occupies, 
was  assailed  in  his  old  age  by  all  the  young  sawbones' 
apprentices.  Being  grossly  abused  during  a  discussion 
by  some  young  addlehead  who  might  have  been  the 
best  son  in  the  world,  but  who  certainly  lacked  all 
sense  of  respect,  the  old  master  answered  him  in  his 
treatise  De  la  Mumie,  de  la  Licorne,  des  Venins  et  de 
la  Peste.  "  I  pray  him,"  said  the  great  man — "  I  pray 
him,  that  if  he  desire  to  make  any  contradictions  to 
my  reply,  he  abandon  all  animosities,  and  treat  the 
good  old  man  with  gentleness."  This  answer  seems 
admirable  from  the  pen  of  Ambroise  Pare ;  but  even 
had  it  been  written  by  a  village  bonesetter,  grown 
gray  in  his  calling,  and  mocked  by  some  young  strip- 
ling, it  would  still  be  worthy  of  all  praise. 

It  might  perhaps  seem  that  my  memory  of  the  inci- 
dent had  been  kept  alive  only  by  a  base  feeling  of  re- 
sentment. I  thought  so  myself  at  first,  and  reproached 
myself  for  thus  dwelling  on  the  saying  of  a  boy  who 
could  not  yet  know  the  meaning  of  his  own  words. 
But  my  reflections  on  this  subject  subsequently  took 
a  better  course :  that  is  why  I  now  note  them  down 
in  my  diary.  I  remembered  that  one  day  when  I  was 
twenty  years  old  (that  was  more  than  half  a  century 
ago)  I  was  walking  about  in  that  very  same  garden 
of  the  Luxembourg  with  some  comrades.  We  were 
talking  about  our  old  professors ;  and  one  of  us  hap- 
pened to  name  Monsieur  Petit-Radel,  an  estimable  and 


168         THE  CRIME  OF   STLVESTRE  BOKNARD. 

learned  man,  who  was  the  first  to  throw  some  light 
upon  the  origin  of  early  Etruscan  civilization,  but  who 
had  been  unfortunate  enough  to  prepare  a  chronolog- 
ical table  of  the  lovers  of  Helen.  We  all  laughed  a 
great  deal  about  that  chronological  table ;  and  I  cried 
out,  "  Petit-Eadel  is  an  ass,  not  in  three  letters,  but  in 
twelve  whole  volumes !" 

This  foolish  speech  of  my  adolescence  was  uttered 
too  lightly  to  be  a  weight  on  my  conscience  as  an  old 
man.  May  God  kindly  prove  to  me  some  day  that  I 
never  used  any  less  innocent  shaft  of  speech  in  the 
battle  of  life!  But  I  now  ask  myself  whether  I 
really  never  wrote,  at  any  time  in  my  life,  something 
quite  as  unconsciously  absurd  as  the  chronological  ta- 
ble of  the  lovers  of  Helen.  The  progress  of  science 
renders  useless  the  very  books  which  have  been  the 
greatest  aids  to  that  progress.  As  those  works  are  no 
longer  useful,  modern  youth  is  naturally  inclined  to 
believe  they  never  had  any  value ;  it  despises  them, 
and  ridicules  them  if  they  happen  to  contain  any 
superannuated  opinion  whatever.  That  was  why,  in 
my  twentieth  year,  I  amused  myself  at  the  expense 
of  Monsieur  Petit-Eadel  and  his  chronological  table ; 
and  that  was  why,  the  other  day,  at  the  Luxembourg, 
my  young  and  irreverent  friend  .  . . 

"  Rentre  en  toi-mtme,  Octave,  et  cesse  de  U  plaindre. 
Qiioif  tu  veux  qu'on  Vepargne  et  n'as  rien  epargne!"* 

*  "  Look  into  thyself,  Octavius,  and  cease  complaining. 

What !  thou  wouldst  be  spared,  and  tbou  thyself  hast  spared 
none  1" 


TEE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD.         169 

June  6. 

IT  was  the  first  Thursday  in  June.  I  shut  up  my 
books,  and  took  my  leave  of  the  holy  Abbot  Drocto- 
veus,  who  being  now  in  the  enjoyment  of  celestial 
bliss,  cannot  feel  very  impatient  to  behold  his  name 
and  works  glorified  on  earth  through  the  humble 
compilation  being  prepared  by  my  hands.  Must  I 
confess  it?  That  mallow -plant  I  saw  visited  by  a 
bee  the  other  day  has  been  occupying  my  thoughts 
much  more  than  all  the  ancient  abbots  who  ever  bore 
crosiers  or  wore  mitres.  There  is  in  one  of  Sprengel's 
books  which  I  read  in  my  youth,  at  that  time  when  I 
used  to  read  anything  and  everything,  some  ideas 
about  "the  loves  of  flowers"  which  now  return  to 
memory  after  having  been  forgotten  for  half  a  century, 
and  which  to-day  interest  me  so  much  that  I  regret 
not  to  have  devoted  the  humble  capacities  of  my  mind 
to  the  study  of  insects  and  of  plants. 

And  only  a  while  ago  my  housekeeper  surprised  me 
at  the  kitchen  window,  in  the  act  of  examining  some 
wallflowers  through  a  magnifying-glass.  .  .  . 

It  was  while  looking  for  my  cravat  that  I  made 
these  reflections.  But  after  searching  to  no  purpose 
in  a  great  number  of  drawers,  I  found  myself  obliged, 
after  all,  to  have  recourse  to  my  housekeeper.  Therese 
came  limping  in. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  "  you  ought  to  have  told  me 
you  were  going  out,  and  I  would  have  given  you  your 
cravat  1" 


170        THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"  But  Therese,"  I  replied,  "  would  it  not  be  a  great 
deal  better  to  put  it  some  place  where  I  could  find  it 
without  your  help?" 

Therese  did  not  deign  to  answer  me. 

Therese  no  longer  allows  me  to  arrange  anything. 
I  cannot  even  have  a  handkerchief  without  asking  her 
for  it ;  and  as  she  is  deaf,  crippled,  and,  what  is  worse, 
beginning  to  lose  her  memory,  I  languish  in  perpetual 
destitution.  But  she  exercises  her  domestic  authority 
with  such  quiet  pride  that  I  do  not  feel  the  courage 
to  attempt  a  coup  d'etat  against  her  government. 

"My  cravat!  Therese! — do  you  hear? — my  cravat! 
if  you  drive  me  wild  like  this  with  your  slow  ways,  it 
will  not  be  a  cravat  I  shall  need,  but  a  rope  to  hang 
myself!" 

"  You  must  be  in  a  very  great  hurry,  Monsieur,"  re- 
plied Therese.  "  Your  cravat  is  not  lost.  Nothing  is 
ever  lost  in  this  house,  because  I  have  charge  of  every- 
thing. But  please  allow  me  the  time  at  least  to  find 
it." 

"  Yet  here,"  I  thought  to  myself — "  here  is  the  result 
of  half  a  century  of  devotedness  and  self-sacrifice !  .  . . 
Ah !  if  by  any  happy  chance,  this  inexorable  Thdrese 
had  once  in  her  whole  life,  only  once,  failed  in  her 
duty  as  a  servant — if  she  had  ever  been  at  fault  for  one 
single  instant,  she  could  never  have  assumed  this  in- 
flexible authority  over  me,  and  I  would  at  least  have 
the  courage  to  resist  her.  But  how  can  one  resist 
virtue  ?  The  people  who  have  no  weaknesses  are  ter- 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.         171 

rible ;  there  is  no  way  of  taking  advantage  of  them. 
Just  look  at  Therese,  for  example ;  she  has  not  a  sin- 
gle fault  for  which  you  can  blame  her !  She  has  no 
doubt  of  herself,  nor  of  God,  nor  of  the  world.  She 
is  the  valiant  woman,  the  wise  virgin  of  Scripture ; 
others  may  know  nothing  about  her,  but  I  know  her 
worth.  In  my  fancy  I  always  see  her  carrying  a 
lamp,  an  humble  kitchen  lamp,  illuminating  the  beams 
of  some  rustic  roof — a  lamp  which  will  never  go  out 
while  suspended  from  that  meagre  arm  of  hers,  scrag- 
gy and  strong  as  a  vine-branch. 

"  Therese,  my  cravat !  Don't  you  know,  wretched 
woman,  that  to-day  is  the  first  Thursday  in  June,  and 
that  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  will  be  waiting  for  me? 
The  schoolmistress  has  certainly  had  the  parlor  floor 
vigorously  waxed :  I  am  sure  one  can  look  at  one's  self 
in  it  now ;  and  it  will  be  quite  a  consolation  for  me 
when  I  slip  and  break  my  old  bones  upon  it — which 
is  sure  to  happen  sooner  or  later — to  see  my  rueful 
countenance  reflected  in  it  as  in  a  looking-glass.  Then 
taking  for  my  model  that  amiable  and  admirable  hero 
whose  image  is  carved  upon  the  handle  of  Uncle  Vic- 
tor's walking-stick,  I  will  control  myself  so  as  not  to 
make  too  ugly  a  grimace.  .  .  .  See  what  a  splendid 
sun!  The  quays  are  all  gilded  by  it,  and  the  Seine 
smiles  in  countless  little  flashing  wrinkles.  The  city 
is  gold :  a  dust-haze,  blonde  and  gold-toned  as  a  wom- 
an's hair,  floats  above  its  beautiful  contours.  .  .  . 
Therese,  my  cravat !  .  .  .  Ah  1  I  can  now  comprehend 


172         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

the  wisdom  of  that  old  Chrysal  who  used  to  keep  his 
neckbands  in  a  big  Plutarch.  Hereafter  I  shall  follow 
his  example  by  laying  all  my  neckties  away  between 
the  leaves  of  the  '  Acta  Sanctorum.' " 

Therese  lets  me  talk  on,  and  keeps  looking  for  the 
necktie  in  silence.  I  hear  a  gentle  ringing  at  our 
door-bell. 

"  Therese,"  I  exclaim ;  "  there  is  somebody  ring- 
ing the  bell !  Give  me  my  cravat,  and  go  to  the  door ; 
or,  rather,  go  to  the  door  first,  and  then,  with  the 
help  of  Heaven,  you  will  give  me  my  cravat.  But 
please  do  not  stand  there  between  the  clothes-press 
and  the  door  like  an  old  hack  horse  between  two 
saddles." 

Therese  marched  to  the  door  as  if  advancing  upon 
an  enemy.  My  excellent  housekeeper  becomes  more 
inhospitable  the  older  she  grows.  Every  stranger  is 
an  object  of  suspicion  to  her.  According  to  her  own 
assertion,  this  disposition  is  the  result  of  a  long  ex- 
perience with  human  nature.  I  had  not  the  time  to 
consider  whether  the  same  experience  on  the  part  of 
another  experimenter  would  produce  the  same  results. 
Maitre  Mouche  was  waiting  to  see  me  in  the  ante- 
room. 

Maitre  Mouche  is  still  more  yellow  than  I  had  be- 
lieved him  to  be.  He  wears  blue  glasses,  and  his  eyes 
keep  moving  uneasily  behind  them,  like  mice  running 
about  behind  a  screen. 

Maitre  Mouche  excuses  himself  for  having  intruded 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         173 

upon  me  at  a  moment  when  .  .  .  He  does  not  char- 
acterize the  moment;  but  I  think  he  means  to < say  a 
moment  in  which  I  happen  to  be  without  my  cravat. 
It  is  not  my  fault,  as  you  very  well  know.  Maitre 
Mouche,  who  does  not  know,  does  not  appear  to  be  at 
all  shocked,  however.  He  is  only  afraid  that  he 
might  have  dropped  in  at  the  wrong  moment.  I  suc- 
ceed in  partially  reassuring  him  at  once  upon  that 
point.  He  then  tells  me  it  is  as  the  guardian  of 
Mademoiselle  Alexandre  that  he  has  come  to  talk 
with  me.  First  of  all,  he  desires  that  I  shall  not 
hereafter  pay  any  heed  to  those  restrictions  he  had  at 
first  deemed  it  necessary  to  put  upon  the  permit 
given  to  visit  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  at  the  boarding- 
school.  Henceforth  the  establishment  of  Mademoi- 
selle Prefere  will  be  open  to  me  any  day  that  I  may 
choose  to  call — between  the  hours  of  midday  and  four 
o'clock.  Knowing  the  interest  I  have  taken  in  the 
young  girl,  he  considers  it  his  duty  to  give  me  some 
information  about  the  person  to  whom  he  has  con- 
fided his  ward.  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  whom  he  has 
known  for  many  years,  is  in  possession  of  his  ut- 
most confidence.  Mademoiselle  Prefere  is,  in  his  esti- 
mation, an  enlightened  person,  of  excellent  morals, 
and  capable  of  giving  excellent  counsel. 

"  Mademoiselle  Prefere,"  he  said  to  me,  "  has  prin- 
ciples ;  and  principles  are  rare  in  these  days,  Mon- 
sieur. Everything  has  been  totally  changed  ;  and  this 
epoch  of  ours  cannot  compare  with  the  preceding  ones," 


174        THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

"  My  stairway  is  a  good  example,  Monsieur,"  I  re- 
plied;  "  twenty-five  years  ago  it  used  to  allow  me  to 
climb  it  without  any  trouble,  and  now  it  takes  my 
breath  away,  and  wears  my  legs  out  before  I  have 
climbed  half  a  dozen  steps.  It  has  had  its  character 
spoiled.  Then  there  are  those  journals  and  books  I 
used  once  to  devour  without  resistance  by  moonlight : 
to-day,  even  in  the  brightest  sunlight,  they  mock  my 
curiosity,  and  exhibit  nothing  but  a  blur  of  white 
and  black  when  I  have  not  got  my  spectacles  on. 
Then  the  gout  has  got  into  my  limbs.  That  is  an- 
other malicious  trick  of  the  times !" 

"  Not  only  that,  Monsieur,"  gravely  replied  Maitre 
Mouche,  "but  what  is  really  unfortunate  in  our 
epoch  is  that  no  one  is  satisfied  with  his  position. 
From  the  top  of  society  to  the  bottom,  in  every  class, 
there  prevails  a  discontent,  a  restlessness,  a  love  of 
comfort  .  .  ." 

"  Man  Dieu,  Monsieur !"  I  exclaimed.  . "  You  think 
this  love  of  comfort  is  a  sign  of  the  times?  Men 
have  never  had  at  any  epoch  a  love  of  discomfort. 
They  have  always  tried  to  better  their  condition. 
This  constant  effort  produces  constant  changes,  and 
the  effort  is  always  going  on — that  is  all  there  is 
about  it !" 

"Ah!  Monsieur,"  replied  Maitre  Mouche,  "it  is 
easy  to  see  that  you  live  in  your  books — out  of  the 
business  world  altogether.  You  do  not  see,  as  I  see 
them,  the  conflicts  of  interest,  the  struggle  for  money. 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.        175 

It  is  the  same  effervescence  in  all  minds,  great  or 
small.  The  wildest  speculations  are  being  everywhere 
indulged  in.  What  I  see  around  me  simply  terrifies 
me!" 

I  wondered  within  myself  whether  Maitre  Mouche 
had  called  upon  me  only  for  the  purpose  of  expressing 
his  virtuous  misanthropy ;  but  all  at  once  I  heard 
words  of  a  more  consoling  character  issue  from  his 
lips.  Maitre  Mouche  began  to  speak  to  me  of  Vir- 
ginie  Prefere  as  a  person  worthy  of  respect,  of  es- 
teem, and  of  sympathy, — highly  honorable,  capable  of 
great  devotedness,  cultivated,  discreet, — able  to  read 
aloud  remarkably  well,  extremely  modest,  and  skil- 
ful in  the  art  of  applying  blisters.  Then  I  began  to 
understand  that  he  had  only  been  painting  that  dis- 
mal picture  of  universal  corruption  in  order  the  better 
to  bring  out,  by  contrast,  the  virtues  of  the  school- 
mistress. I  was  further  informed  that  the  institution 
in  the  Rue  Demours  was  well  patronized,  prosperous, 
and  enjoyed  a  high  reputation  with  the  public.  Maitre 
Mouche  lifted  up  his  hand — with  a  black  woollen 
glove  on  it — as  if  making  oath  to  the  truth  of  these 
statements.  Then  he  added : 

"  I  am  enabled,  by  the  very  character  of  my  pro- 
fession, to  know  a  great  deal  about  people.  A  notary 
is,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  father-confessor.  I  deemed 
it  my  duty,  Monsieur,  to  give  you  this  agreeable  in- 
formation at  the  moment  when  a  lucky  chance  en- 
abled you  to  meet  Mademoiselle  Prefere.  There  is 


176         THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

only  one  thing  more  which  I  would  like  to  say.  This 
lady — who  is,  of  course,  quite  unaware  of  my  action 
in  the  matter — spoke  to  me  of  you  the  other  day  in 
terms  of  the  deepest  sympathy.  I  could  only  weaken 
their  expression  by  repeating  them  to  you;  and, 
furthermore,  I  could  not  repeat  them  without  betray- 
ing, to  a  certain  extent,  the  confidence  of  Mademoiselle 
Prefere." 

"  Do  not  betray  it,  Monsieur ;  do  not  betray  it !"  I 
responded.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  had  no  idea 
that  Mademoiselle  Prefere  knew  anything  whatever 
about  me.  But  since  you  have  the  influence  of  an 
old  friend  with  her,  I  will  take  advantage  of  your 
good  will,  Monsieur,  to  ask  you  to  exercise  that  influ- 
ence in  behalf  of  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  Alexandre. 
The  child — for  she  is  still  a  child — is  overloaded  with 
work.  She  is  at  once  a  pupil  and  a  mistress — she  is 
overtasked.  Besides,  she  is  punished  in  petty  dis- 
gusting ways ;  and  hers  is  one  of  those  generous  nat- 
ures which  will  be  forced  into  revolt  by  such  con- 
tinual humiliation." 

"  Alas !"  replied  Maitre  Mouche,  "  she  must  be 
trained  to  take  her  part  in  the  struggle  of  life.  One 
does  not  come  into  this  world  simply  to  amuse  one's 
self,  and  to  do  just  what  one  pleases." 

"  One  comes  into  this  world,"  I  responded,  rather 
warmly,  "  to  enjoy  what  is  beautiful  and  what  is  good, 
and  to  do  as  one  pleases,  when  the  things  one  wants 
to  do  are  noble,  intelligent,  and  generous.  An  edu- 


THE  CHIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.        177 

cation  which  does  not  cultivate  the  will,  is  an  educa- 
tion that  depraves  the  mind.  It  is  a  teacher's  duty 
to  teach  the  pupil  how  to  will." 

I  perceived  that  Maitre  Mouche  began  to  think  me 
a  rather  silly  man.  With  a  great  deal  of  quiet  self- 
assurance,  he  proceeded : 

"  You  must  remember,  Monsieur,  that  the  education 
of  the  poor  has  to  be  conducted  with  a  great  deal  of 
circumspection,  and  with  a  view  to  that  future  state 
of  dependence  they  must  occupy  in  society.  Perhaps 
you  are  not  aware  that  the  late  Noel  Alexandre  died 
a  bankrupt,  and  that  his  daughter  is  being  educated 
almost  by  charity  ?" 

"  Oh  !  Monsieur !"  I  exclaimed,  "  do  not  say  it !  To 
say  it  is  to  pay  one's  self  back,  and  then  the  statement 
ceases  to  be  true." 

"  The  liabilities  of  the  succession,"  continued  the 
notary,  "  exceeded  the  assets.  But  I  was  able  to  ef- 
fect a  settlement  with  the  creditors  in  favor  of  the 
minor." 

lie  undertook  to  explain  matters  in  detail.  I  de- 
clined to  listen  to  these  explanations,  being  incapable 
of  understanding  business  methods  in  general,  and 
those  of  Maitre  Mouche  in  particular.  The  notary 
then  took  it  upon  himself  to  justify  Mademoiselle 
Prefere's  educational  system,  and  observed  by  way 
of  conclusion, 

"  It  is  not  by  amusing  one's  self  that  one  can  learn." 

"  It  is  only  by  amusing  one's  self  that  one  can  learn," 
12 


178        THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

I  replied.  "  The  whole  art  of  teaching  is  only  the  art 
of  awakening  the  natural  curiosity  of  young  minds 
for  the  purpose  of  satisfying  it  afterwards;  and  cu- 
riosity itself  can  be  vivid  and  wholesome  only  in  pro- 
portion as  the  mind  is  contented  and  happy.  Those 
acquirements  crammed  by  force  into  the  minds  of 
children  simply  clog  and  stifle  intelligence.  In  order 
that  knowledge  be  properly  digested,  it  must  have 
been  swallowed  with  a  good  appetite.  I  know  Jeanne ! 
If  that  child  were  intrusted  to  my  care,  I  should  make 
of  her — not  a  learned  woman,  for  I  would  look  to  her 
future  happiness  only — but  a  child  full  of  bright  in- 
telligence and  full  of  life,  in  whom  everything  beau- 
tiful in  art  or  nature  would  awaken  some  gentle 
responsive  thrill.  I  would  teach  her  to  live  in  sym- 
pathy with  all  that  is  beautiful — comely  landscapes, 
the  ideal  scenes  of  poetry  and  history,  the  emotional 
charm  of  noble  music.  I  would  make  lovable  to  her 
everything  I  would  wish  her  to  love.  Even  her  needle- 
work I  would  make  pleasurable  to  her,  by  a  proper 
choice  of  the  tissues,  the  style  of  embroideries,  the 
designs  of  lace.  I  would  give  her  a  beautiful  dog,  and 
a  pony  to  teach  her  how  to  manage  animals ;  I  would 
give  her  birds  to  take  care  of,  so  that  she  could  learn 
the  value  of  even  a  drop  of  water  and  a  crumb  of 
bread.  And  in  order  that  she  should  have  a  still 
higher  pleasure,  I  would  train  her  to  find  delight  in 
exercising  charity.  And  inasmuch  as  none  of  us  may 
escape  pain,  I  should  teach  her  that  Christian  wisdom 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.         1Y9 

which  elevates  us  above  all  suffering,  and  gives  a 
beauty  even  to  grief  itself.  That  is  my  idea  of  the 
right  way  to  educate  a  young  girl." 

"  I  yield,  Monsieur,"  replied  Maitre  Mouche,  joining 
his  black-gloved  hands  together. 

And  he  rose. 

"  Of  course  you  understand,"  I  remarked,  as  I  went 
to  the  door  with  him,  "  that  I  do  not  pretend  for  a 
moment  to  impose  my  educational  system  upon  Made- 
moiselle Pref  ere ;  it  is  necessarily  a  private  one,  and 
quite  incompatible  with  the  organization  of  even  the 
best-managed  boarding-schools.  I  only  ask  you  to 
persuade  her  to  give  Jeanne  less  work  and  more  play, 
and  not  to  punish  her  except  in  case  of  absolute  neces- 
sity, and  to  let  her  have  as  much  freedom  of  mind 
and  body  as  the  regulations  of  the  institution  permit." 

It  was  with  a  pale  and  mysterious  smile  that  Maitre 
Mouche  informed  me  that  my  observations  would  be 
taken  in  good  part,  and  should  receive  all  possible 
consideration. 

Therewith  he  made  me  a  little  bow,  and  took  his 
departure,  leaving  me  with  a  peculiar  feeling  of  dis- 
comfort and  uneasiness.  I  have  met  a  great  many 
strange  characters  in  my  time,  but  never  any  at  all 
resembling  either  this  notary  or  this  schoolmistress. 


180        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

July  6. 

Maitre  Mouche  had  so  much  delayed  me  by  his 
visit  that  I  gave  up  going  to  see  Jeanne  that  day. 
Professional  duties  kept  me  very  busy  for  the  rest  of 
the  week.  Although  at  the  age  when  most  men  re- 
tire altogether  from  active  life,  I  am  still  attached  by 
a  thousand  ties  to  the  society  in  which  I  have  lived. 
I  have  to  preside  at  meetings  of  academies,  scientific 
congresses,  assemblies  of  various  learned  bodies.  I 
am  overburdened  with  honorary  functions ;  I  have 
seven  of  these  in  one  government  department  alone. 
The  bureaux  would  be  very  glad  to  get  rid  of  me,  and 
I  should  be  very  glad  to  get  rid  of  them.  But  habit 
is  stronger  than  both  of  us  together,  and  I  continue  to 
hobble  up  the  stairs  of  various  government  buildings. 
Old  clerks  point  me  out  to  each  other  as  I  go  by 
like  a  ghost  wandering  through  the  corridors.  "When 
one  has  become  very  old  one  finds  it  extremely  diffi- 
cult to  disappear.  Nevertheless,  it  is  time,  as  the  old 
song  says,"  de prendre  ma  retraite  et  de  songer  dfaire 
un  jm  " — to  retire  on  my  pension  and  prepare  myself 
to  die  a  good  death. 

An  old  marchioness,  who  used  to  be  a  friend  of  Helve- 
tius  in  her  youth,  and  whom  I  once  met  at  my  father's 
house  when  a  very  old  woman,  was  visited  during  her 
last  sickness  by  the  priest  of  her  parish,  who  wanted 
to  prepare  her  to  die. 

"Is  that   really    necessary?"    she   asked.     "I  see 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         181 

everybody  else  manage  it  perfectly  well  the  first 
time." 

My  father  went  to  see  her  very  soon  afterwards, 
and  found  her  extremely  ill. 

"  Good-evening,  my  friend !"  she  said,  pressing  his 
hand.  "  I  am  going  to  see  whether  God  improves  upon 
acquaintance." 

So  were  wont  to  die  the  belles  amies  of  the  philoso- 
phers. Such  an  end  is  certainly  not  vulgar  nor  imper- 
tinent, and  such  levities  are  not  of  the  sort  that  ema- 
nate from  dull  minds.  Nevertheless,  they  shock  me. 
Neither  my  fears  nor  my  hopes  could  accommodate 
themselves  to  such  a  mode  of  departure.  I  would  like 
to  make  mine  with  a  perfectly  collected  mind;  and 
that  is  why  I  must  begin  to  think,  in  a  year  or  two, 
about  some  way  of  belonging  to  myself ;  otherwise,  I 
should  certainly  risk  .  .  .  But,  hush !  let  Him  not  hear 
His  name  and  turn  to  look  as  He  passes  by !  I  can 
still  lift  my  fagot  without  His  aid. 

...  I  found  Jeanne  very  happy  indeed.  She  told 
me  that,  on  the  Thursday  previous,  after  the  visit  of 
her  guardian,  Mademoiselle  Prefere  had  set  her  free 
from  the  ordinary  regulations  and  lightened  her  tasks 
in  several  ways.  Since  that  lucky  Thursday  she  could 
walk  in  the  garden — which  only  lacked  leaves  and 
flowers — as  much  as  she  liked ;  and  she  had  even  been 
given  facilities  to  work  at  her  unfortunate  little  figure 
of  Saint-George. 

She  said  to  me,  with  a  smile, 


182         TUB  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"  I  know  very  well  that  I  owe  all  this  to  you." 

I  tried  to  talk  with  her  about  other  matters,  but  I 
remarked  that  she  could  not  attend  to  what  I  was  say- 
ing, in  spite  of  her  effort  to  do  so. 

"  I  see  you  are  thinking  about  something  else,"  I 
said.  "  Well,  tell  me  what  it  is ;  for,  if  you  do  jiot,  we 
shall  not  be  able  to  talk  to  each  other  at  all,  which 
would  be  very  unworthy  of  both  of  us." 

She  answered, 

"  Oh !  I  was  really  listening  to  you,  Monsieur ;  but 
it  is  true  that  I  was  thinking  about  something  else. 
You  will  excuse  me,  won't  you  ?  I  could  not  help 
thinking  that  Mademoiselle  Prefere  must  like  you 
very,  very  much  indeed,  to  have  become  so  good  to 
me  all  of  a  sudden." 

Then  she  looked  at  me  in  an  odd,  smiling,  fright- 
ened way,  which  made  me  laugh. 

"  Does  that  surprise  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Very  much,"  she  replied. 

" Please  tell  me  why?" 

"  Because  I  can  see  no  reason,  no  reason  at  all  ... 
but  there !  ...  no  reason  at  all  why  you  should  please 
Mademoiselle  Prefere  so  much." 

" So,  then,  you  think  I  am  very  displeasing,  Jeanne?" 

She  bit  her  lips,  as  if  to  punish  them  for  having 
made  a  mistake ;  and  then,  in  a  coaxing  way,  looking 
at  me  with  her  great  soft  eyes,  gentle  and  beautiful 
as  a  spaniel's,  she  said, 

"  I  know  I  said  a  foolish  thing ;  but,  still,  I  do  not 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.         183 

see  any  reason  why  you  should  be  so  pleasing  to  Ma- 
demoiselle Prefere.  And,  nevertheless,  you  seem  to 
please  her  a  great  deal — a  very  great  deal.  She  called 
me  one  day,  and  asked  me  all  sorts  of  questions  about 
you." 

"Really?" 

"  Yes ;  she  wanted  to  find  out  all  about  your  house. 
Just  think !  she  even  asked  me  how  old  your  servant 
was !" 

And  Jeanne  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  about  it  ?"  I  asked. 

She  remained  a  long  while  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  worn-out  cloth  of  her  shoes,  and  seemed  to  be 
tliinking  very  deeply.  Finally,  looking  up  again,  she 
answered, 

"  I  am  distrustful.  Isn't  it  very  natural  to  feel  un- 
easy about  what  one  cannot  understand  ?  I  know  I  am 
foolish ;  but  you  won't  be  offended  with  me,  will  you?" 

"  "Why,  certainly  not,  Jeanne.  I  am  not  a  bit  offend- 
ed with  you." 

I  must  acknowledge  that  I  was  beginning  to  share 
her  surprise ;  and  I  began  to  turn  over  in  my  old  head 
the  singular  thought  of  this  young  girl — "  One  is  un- 
easy about  what  one  cannot  understand." 

But,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  merriment,  she  cried 
out, 

"  She  asked  me .  .  .  guess !  I  will  give  you  a  hun- 
dred guesses — a  thousand  guesses.  You  give  it  up  ? ... 
She  asked  me  if  you  liked  good  eating," 


184          THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"  And  how  did  you  receive  this  shower  of  interroga- 
tions, Jeanne?" 

"I  replied,  'I  don't  know,  Mademoiselle.'  And 
Mademoiselle  then  said  to  me,  '  You  are  a  little  fool. 
The  least  details  of  the  life  of  an  eminent  man  ought 
to  be  observed.  Please  to  know,  Mademoiselle,  that 
Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard  is  one  of  the  glories  of 
France !' " 

"  Stuff !"  I  exclaimed.  "  And  what  did  you  think 
about  it,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

"  I  thought  that  Mademoiselle  Prefere  was  right." 
But  I  don't  care  at  all ...  (I  know  it  is  naughty  what  I 
am  going  to  say) ...  I  don't  care  a  bit,  not  a  bit,  wheth- 
er Mademoiselle  Prefere  is  or  is  not  right  about  any- 
thing." 

"  Well,  then,  content  yourself,  Jeanne,  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  was  not  right." 

"Yes,  yes,  she  was  quite  right  that  time;  but  I 
wanted  to  love  everybody  who  loved  you  —  every- 
body without  exception — and  I  cannot  do  it,  because 
it  would  never  be  possible  for  me  to  love  Mademoiselle 
Prefere." 

"  Listen,  Jeanne,"  I  answered,  very  seriously,  "Made- 
moiselle Prefere  has  become  good  to  you  ;  try  now  to 
be  good  to  her." 

She  answered  sharply, 

"  It  is  very  easy  for  Mademoiselle  Prefere  to  be  good 
to  me,  and  it  would  be  very  difficult  indeed  for  me  to 
be  good  to  her." 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNABD.         185 

I  then  said,  in  a  still  more  serious  tone : 

"  My  child,  the  authority  of  a  teacher  is  sacred.  You 
must  consider  your  schoolmistress  as  occupying  the 
place  to  you  of  the  mother  whom  you  lost." 

I  had  scarcely  uttered  this  solemn  stupidity  when  I 
bitterly  regretted  it.  The  child  turned  pale,  and  the 
tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur !"  she  cried,  "  how  could  you  say 
such  a  thing — you  f  You  never  knew  mamma !" 

Ay,  just  Heaven !  I  did  know  her  mamma.  And 
how  indeed  could  I  have  been  foolish  enough  to  have 
said  what  I  did  ? 

She  repeated,  as  if  to  herself : 

"  Mamma !  my  dear  mamma !  my  poor  mamma !" 

A  lucky  chance  prevented  me  from  playing  the  fool 
any  further.  I  do  not  know  how  it  happened  that  at 
that  moment  I  looked  as  if  I  was  going  to  cry.  At 
my  age  one  does  not  cry.  It  must  have  been  a  bad 
cough  which  brought  the  tears  into  my  eyes.  But,  any- 
how, appearances  were  in  my  favor.  Jeanne  was 
deceived  by  them.  Oh !  what  a  pure  and  radiant 
smile  suddenly  shone  out  under  her  beautiful  wet  eye- 
lashes— like  sunshine  among  branches  after  a  summer 
shower !  We  took  each  other  by  the  hand  and  sat  a 
long  while  without  saying  a  word — absolutely  happy. 
Those  celestial  harmonies  which  I  once  thought  I 
heard  thrilling  through  my  soul  while  I  knelt  before 
that  tomb  to  which  a  saintly  woman  had  guided  me, 
suddenly  awoke  again  in  my  heart,  slow  -  swelling 


186        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

through  the  blissful  moments  with  infinite  softness. 
Doubtless  the  child  whose  hand  pressed  my  own  also 
heard  them ;  and  then,  elevated  by  their  enchantment 
above  the  material  world,  the  poor  old  man  and  the 
artless  young  girl  both  knew  that  a  tender  ghostly 
Presence  was  making  sweetness  all  about  them. 

"  My  child,"  I  said  at  last,  "  I  am  very  old,  and  many 
secrets  of  life  which  you  will  only  learn  little  by  little, 
have  been  revealed  to  me.  Believe  me,  the  future  is 
shaped  out  of  the  past.  Whatever  you  can  do  to  live 
contentedly  here,  without  impatience  and  without  fret- 
ting, will  help  you  to  live  some  future  day  in  peace  and 
joy  in  your  own  home.  Be  gentle,  and  learn  how  to 
suffer.  When  one  suffers  patiently  one  suffers  less. 
If  you  should  ever  happen  to  have  a  serious  cause  of 
complaint  I  shall  be  there  to  take  your  part.  If  you 
should  be  badly  treated,  Madame  De  Gabry  and  I 
would  both  consider  ourselves  badly  treated  in  your 
person."  .  .  . 

"  Is  your  health  very  good  indeed,  dear  Monsieur  ?" 

It  was  Mademoiselle  Preiere,  approaching  stealthily 
behind  us,  who  had  asked  the  question,  with  her  pe- 
culiar smile.  My  first  idea  was  to  tell  her  to  go  to  the 
devil ;  my  second,  that  her  mouth  was  as  little  suited 
for  smiling  as  a  frying-pan  for  musical  purposes  ;  my 
third  was  to  answer  her  politely  and  assure  her  that  I 
hoped  she  was  very  well. 

She  sent  the  young  girl  out  to  take  a  walk  in  the 
garden ;  then,  pressing  one  hand  upon  her  pelerine  and 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        187 

extending  the  other  towards  the  Tableau  (THonneur, 
she  showed  me  the  name  of  Jeanne  Alexandre  written 
at  the  head  of  the  list  in  large  text. 

"  I  am  very  much  pleased,"  I  said  to  her,  "  to  find 
that  you  are  satisfied  with  the  behavior  of  that  child. 
Nothing  could  delight  me  more  ;  and  I  am  inclined  to 
attribute  this  happy  result  to  your  affectionate  vigi- 
lance. I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  send  you  a  few 
books  which  I  think  may  serve  both  to  instruct  and  to 
amuse  young  girls.  You  will  be  able  to  judge  by  glanc- 
ing over  them  whether  they  are  adapted  to  the  perusal 
of  Mademoiselle  Alexandre  and  her  companions." 

The  gratitude  of  the  schoolmistress  not  only  over- 
flowed in  words,  but  seemed  about  to  take  the  form  of 
tearful  sensibility.  In  order  to  change  the  subject  I 
observed, 

"  What  a  beautiful  day  this  is  !" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied ;  "  and  if  this  weather  continues, 
those  dear  children  will  have  a  nice  time  for  their  en- 
joyment." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  referring  to  the  holidays.  But 
Mademoiselle  Alexandre,  who  has  no  relatives,  cannot 
go  away.  What  in  the  world  is  she  going  to  do  all 
alone  in  this  great  big  house  ?" 

"  Oh,  we  will  do  everything  we  can  to  amuse  her.  .  .  . 
I  will  take  her  to  the  museums  and — 

She  hesitated,  blushed,  and  continued, 

" — and  to  your  house,  if  you  will  permit  me." 

"  Why,  of  course !"  I  exclaimed.  "  That  is  a  first-rate 
idea." 


188         THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

We  separated  very  good  friends  with  one  another. 
I  with  her,  because  I  had  been  able  to  obtain  what  I 
desired;  she  with  me,  for  no  appreciable  motive — 
which  fact,  according  to  Plato,  elevated  her  into  the 
highest  rank  of  the  Hierarchy  of  Souls. 

.  .  .  And  nevertheless  it  is  not  without  a  presentiment 
of  evil  that  I  find  myself  on  the  point  of  introducing 
this  person  into  my  house.  And  I  would  be  very  glad 
indeed  to  see  Jeanne  in  charge  of  anybody  else  rather 
than  of  her.  Maitre  Mouche  and  Mademoiselle  Prefere 
are  characters  whom  I  cannot  at  all  understand.  I 
never  can  imagine  why  they  say  what  they  do  say, 
nor  why  they  do  what  they  do ;  they  have  a  myste- 
rious something  in  common  which  makes  me  feel  un- 
easy. As  Jeanne  said  to  me  a  little  while  ago :  "  One 
is  uneasy  about  what  one  cannot  understand." 

Alas !  at  my  age  one  has  learned  only  too  well  how 
little  sincerity  there  is  in  life ;  one  has  learned  only 
too  well  how  much  one  loses  by  living  a  long  time  in 
this  world ;  and  one  feels  that  one  can  no  longer  trust 
any  except  the  young. 


August  12. 

I  WAITED  for  them.  In  fact,  I  waited  for  them  very 
impatiently.  I  exerted  all  my  powers  of  insinuation 
and  of  coaxing  to  induce  Th6rese  to  receive  them 
kindly ;  but  my  powers  in  this  direction  are  very 
limited.  They  came.  Jeanne  was  neater  and  prettier 
than  I  had  ever  expected  to  see  her.  She  has  not,  it 


THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONNAED.         189 

is  true,  anything  approaching  the  charm  of  her  mother. 
But  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  I  observed  that  she  has 
a  pleasing  face ;  and  a  pleasing  face  is  of  great  advan- 
tao-e  to  a  woman  in  this  world.  I  think  that  her  hat 

o 

was  a  little  on  one  side ;  but  she  smiled,  and  the  City 
of  Books  was  all  illuminated  by  that  smile. 

I  watched  Therese  to  see  whether  the  rigid  man- 
ners of  the  old  housekeeper  would  soften  a  little  at 
the  sight  of  the  young  girl.  I  saw  her  turning  her 
lustreless  eyes  upon  Jeanne ;  I  saw  her  long  wrinkled 
face,  her  toothless  mouth,  and  that  pointed  chin  of 
hers — like  the  chin  of  some  puissant  old  fairy.  And 
that  was  all  I  could  see. 

Mademoiselle  Pref  ere  made  her  appearance  all  in 
blue — advanced,  retreated,  skipped,  tripped,  cried  out, 
sighed,  cast  her  eyes  down,  rolled  her  eyes  up,  bewil- 
dered herself  with  excuses — said  she  dared  not,  and 
nevertheless  dared — said  she  would  never  dare  again, 
and  nevertheless  dared  again — made  courtesies  innu- 
merable— made,  in  short,  all  the  fuss  she  could. 

"  What  a  lot  of  books !"  she  screamed.  "  And  have 
you  really  read  them  all,  Monsieur  Bonnard  ?" 

"  Alas !  I  have,"  I  replied,  "  and  that  is  just  the  rea- 
son that  I  do  not  know  anything ;  for  there  is  not  a 
single  one  of  those  books  which  does  not  contradict 
some  other  book ;  so  that  by  the  time  one  has  read 
them  all  one  does  not  know  what  to  think  about  any- 
thing. That  is  just  my  condition,  Madame." 

Thereupon  she  called  Jeanne  for  the  purpose  of  com- 


190         THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

raunicating  her  impressions.  But  Jeanne  was  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

"  How  beautiful  it  is !"  she  said  to  us.  "  How  I  love 
to  see  the  river  flowing !  It  makes  you  think  about 
all  kinds  of  things." 

Mademoiselle  Prefere  having  removed  her  hat  and 
exhibited  a  forehead  tricked  out  with  blonde  curls,  my 
housekeeper  sturdily  snatched  up  the  hat  at  once,  with 
the  observation  that  she  did  not  like  to  see  people's 
clothes  scattered  over  the  furniture.  Then  she  ap- 
proached Jeanne  and  asked  her  for  her  "  things,"  call- 
ing her  "  my  little  lady !"  Whereupon  the  little  lady 
giving  up  her  cloak  and  hat,  exposed  to  view  a  very 
graceful  neck  and  a  lithe  figure,  whose  outlines  were 
beautifully  relieved  against  the  great  glow  of  the  open 
window ;  and  I  could  have  wished  that  some  one  else 
might  have  seen  her  at  that  moment — some  one  very 
different  from  an  aged  housekeeper,  a  schoolmistress 
frizzled  like  a  sheep,  and  this  old  humbug  of  an  archi- 
vist and  paleographer. 

"  So  you  are  looking  at  the  Seine,"  I  said  to  her. 
"  See  how  it  sparkles  in  the  sun !" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  leaning  over  the  window-bar,  "it 
looks  like  a  flowing  of  fire.  But  see  how  nice  and  cool 
it  looks  on  the  other  side  over  there,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  willows!  That  little  spot  there  pleases  me 
better  than  all  the  rest." 

"  Good !"  I  answered.  "  I  see  that  the  river  has  a 
charm  for  you.  How  would  you  like,  with  Mademoi- 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.         191 

selle  Prefere's  permission,  to  make  a  trip  to  Saint- 
Cloud  ?  "We  would  certainly  be  able  to  take  the  steam- 
boat just  below  the  Pont-Royal." 

Jeanne  was  delighted  with  my  suggestion,  and  Mad- 
emoiselle Prefere  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice.  But 
my  housekeeper  was  not  at  all  willing  to  let  us  go  off 
so  unconcernedly.  She  summoned  me  into  the  dining- 
room,  whither  I  followed  her  in  fear  and  trembling. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said  to  me  as  soon  as  we  found  our- 
selves alone,  "you  never  think  about  anything,  and 
it  is  always  I  who  have  to  think  about  everything. 
Luckily  for  you  I  have  a  good  memory." 

I  did  not  think  that  it  was  a  favorable  moment  for 
any  attempt  to  dispel  this  wild  illusion.  She  continued : 

"  So  you  were  going  off  without  saying  a  word  to  me 
about  what  this  little  lady  likes  to  eat  ?  At  her  age 
one  does  not  know  anything,  one  does  not  care  about 
anything  in  particular,  one  eats  like  a  bird.  You  your- 
self, Monsieur,  are  very  difficult  to  please ;  but  at  least 
you  know  what  is  good  :  it  is  very  different  with  these 
young  people — they  do  not  know  anything  about  cook- 
ing. It  is  often  the  very  best  thing  which  they  think 
the  worst,  and  what  is  bad  seems  to  them  good,  because 
their  stomachs  are  not  quite  formed  yet — so  that  one 
never  knows  just  what  to  do  for  them.  Tell  me  if  the 
little  lady  would  like  a  pigeon  cooked  with  green  pease, 
and  whether  she  is  fond  of  vanilla  ice-cream." 

"  My  good  Therese,"  I  answered,  "  just  do  whatever 
you  think  best,  and  whatever  that  may  be  I  am  sure 


192        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

it  will  be  very  nice.  Those  ladies  will  be  quite  con- 
tented with  our  humble  ordinary  fare." 

Therese  replied,  very  dryly, 

"  Monsieur,  I  am  asking  you  about  the  little  lady : 
ehe  must  not  leave  this  house  without  having  enjoyed 
herself  a  little.  As  for  that  old  frizzle-headed  thing, 
if  she  doesn't  like  my  dinner  she  can  suck  her  thumbs. 
I  don't  care  what  she  likes !" 

My  mind  being  thus  set  at  rest,  I  returned  into  the 
City  of  Books,  where  Mademoiselle  Prefere  was  cro- 
cheting as  calmly  as  if  she  were  at  home.  I  almost 
felt  inclined  myself  to  think  she  was.  She  did  not 
take  up  much  room,  it  is  true,  in  the  angle  of  the  win- 
dow. But  she  had  chosen  her  chair  and  her  footstool 
so  well  that  those  articles  of  furniture  seemed  to  have 
been  made  expressly  for  her. 

Jeanne,  on  the  other  hand,  devoted  her  attention  to 
the  books  and  pictures — gazing  at  them  in  a  kindly, 
expressive,  half -sad  way,  as  if  she  were  bidding  them 
an  affectionate  farewell. 

"  Here,"  I  said  to  her,  "  amuse  yourself  with  this 
book,  which  I  am  sure  you  cannot  help  liking,  be- 
cause it  is  full  of  beautiful  engravings."  And  I  threw 
open  before  her  Vecellio's  collection  of  costume- 
designs — not  the  commonplace  edition,  by  your  leave, 
so  meagrely  reproduced  by  modern  artists,  but  in  truth 
a  magnificent  and  venerable  copy  of  that  editio  prin- 
ceps  which  is  noble  as  those  noble  dames  who  figure 
upon  its  yellowed  leaves,  made  beautiful  by  time. 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.         193 

While  turning  over  the  engravings  with  artless 
curiosity,  Jeanne  said  to  me, 

"  We  were  talking  about  taking  a  walk ;  but  this  is 
a  great  journey  you  are  making  me  take.  And  I 
would  like  to  travel  very,  very  far  away !" 

"  In  that  case,  Mademoiselle,"  I  said  to  her,  "  you 
must  arrange  yourself  as  comfortably  as  possible  for 
travelling.  But  you  are  now  sitting  on  one  corner  of 
your  chair,  so  that  the  chair  is  standing  upon  only 
one  leg,  and  that  Vecellio  must  tire  your  knees.  Sit 
down  comfortably ;  put  your  chair  on  its  four  feet, 
and  put  your  book  on  the  table." 

She  obeyed  me  with  a  laugh. 

I  watched  her.     She  cried  out  suddenly, 

"  Oh,  come  look  at  this  beautiful  costume !"  (It 
was  that  of  the  wife  of  a  Doge  of  Yenice).  "  How 
noble  it  is !  What  magnificent  ideas  it  gives  one  of 
that  life !  Oh,  I  must  tell  you — I  adore  luxury !" 

"You  must  not  express  such  thoughts  as  those, 
Mademoiselle,"  said  the  schoolmistress,  lifting  up  her 
little  shapeless  nose  from  her  work. 

"  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  very  innocent  utterance," 
I  replied.  "  There  are  splendid  souls  in  whom  the 
love  of  splendid  things  is  natural  and  inborn." 

The  little  shapeless  nose  went  down  again. 

"  Mademoiselle    Prefere   likes    luxury  too,"    said 
Jeanne ;  "  she  cuts  out  paper  trimmings  and  shades 
for  the  lamps.     It  is  economical  luxury ;  but  it  is  lux- 
ury all  the  same." 
13 


194        THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

Having  returned  to  the  subject  of  Venice,  we  were 
just  about  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  certain  pa- 
trician lady  attired  in  an  embroidered  dalmatic,  when 
I  heard  the  bell  ring.  I  thought  it  was  some  peddler 
with  his  basket ;  but  the  gate  of  the  City  of  Books 
opened,  and  .  .  .  "Well,  Master  Sylvestre  Bonnard,  you 
were  wishing  awhile  ago  that  the  grace  of  your  pro- 
tegee might  be  observed  by  some  other  eyes  than  old 
withered  eyes  behind  spectacles.  Your  wishes  have 
been  fulfilled  in  a  most  unexpected  manner,  and  a 
voice  cries  out  to  you,  as  to  the  imprudent  Theseus, 

"  Craignez,  Seigneur,  craignez  que  le  Ciel  rigoureux 
Ne  vous  hafsse  assez  pour  exaucer  vos  vceux ! 
Souvent  dans  sa  colere  il  revolt  nos  victimes, 
Ses  presents  sent  souvent  la  peine  de  nos  crimes."  * 

The  gate  of  the  City  of  Books  had  opened,  and  a 
handsome  young  man  made  his  appearance,  ushered 
in  by  Therese.  That  good  old  soul  only  knows  how 
to  open  the  door  for  people  and  to  shut  it  behind 
them ;  she  has  no  idea  whatever  of  the  tact  requisite 
for  the  waiting-room  and  for  the  parlor.  It  is  not  in 
her  nature  either  to  make  any  announcements  or  to 
make  anybody  wait.  She  either  throws  people  out 
on  the  lobby,  or  simply  pitches  them  at  your  head. 

*  "  Beware,  my  lord !  Beware  lest  stern  Heaven  hate  you 
enough  to  hear  your  prayers !  Often  'tis  in  wrath  that  Heaven 
receives  our  sacrifices ;  its  gifts  are  often  the  punishment  of  our 
crimes." 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        195 

And  here  is  this  handsome  young  man  already  in- 
side ;  and  I  cannot  really  take  the  girl  at  once  and 
hide  her  like  a  secret  treasure  in  the  next  room.  I 
wait  for  him  to  explain  himself;  he  does  it  without 
the  least  embarrassment;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  he 
has  already  observed  the  young  girl  who  is  still  bend- 
ing over  the  table  looking  at  Yecellio.  As  I  observe 
the  young  man  it  occurs  to  me  that  I  have  seen  him 
somewhere  before,  or  else  I  must  be  very  much  mis- 
taken. His  name  is  Gelis.  That  is  a  name  which  I 
have  heard  somewhere, — I  can't  remember  where.  At 
all  events,  Monsieur  Gelis  (since  there  is  a  Gelis)  is  a 
fine-looking  young  fellow.  He  tells  me  that  this  is 
his  third  class-year  at  the  Ecole  des  Chartes,  and  that 
he  has  been  working  for  the  past  fifteen  or  eighteen 
months  upon  his  graduation  thesis,  the  subject  of 
which  is  the  Condition  of  the  Benedictine  Abbeys  in 
1700.  He  has  just  read  my  works  upon  the  "  Monas- 
ticon ; "  and  he  is  convinced  that  he  cannot  terminate 
his  thesis  successfully  without  my  advice,  to  begin 
with,  and  in  the  second  place  without  a  certain  manu- 
script which  I  possess,  and  which  is  nothing  less  than 
the  "  Register  of  the  Accounts  of  the  Abbey  of  Citaux 
from  1683  to  1704." 

Having  thus  explained  himself,  he  hands  me  a  let- 
ter of  introduction  bearing  the  signature  of  one  of 
the  most  illustrious  of  my  colleagues. 

Good !  Now  I  know  who  he  is !  Monsieur  Gelis 
is  the  very  same  young  man  who  last  year  under  the 


196         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

chestnut-trees  called  me  an  idiot !     And  while  unfold- 
ing his  letter  of  introduction  I  think  to  myself : 

"  Aha !  my  unlucky  youth,  you  are  very  far  from 
suspecting  that  I  overheard  what  you  said,  and  that 
I  know  what  you  think  of  me — or,  at  least,  what  you 
did  think  of  me  that  day,  for  these  young  minds  are 
so  fickle !  I  have  got  you  now,  my  friend !  You 
have  fallen  into  the  lion's  den,  and  so  unexpected^, 
in  good  sooth,  that  the  astonished  old  lion  does  not 
know  what  to  do  with  his  prey.  But  come  now,  old 
lion  !  do  not  act  like  an  idiot !  Is  it  not  possible  that 
you  were  an  idiot  ?  If  you  are  not  one  now,  you 
certainly  were  one !  You  were  a  fool  to  have  been 
listening  to  Monsieur  Gelis  at  the  foot  of  the  statue 
of  Marguerite  de  Valois ;  you  were  doubly  a  fool  to 
have  heard  what  he  said ;  and  you  were  trebly  a  fool 
not  to  have  forgotten  what  it  would  have  been  much 
better  never  to  have  heard." 

Having  thus  scolded  the  old  lion,  I  exhorted  him  to 
show  clemency.  He  did  not  appear  to  require  much 
coaxing,  and  gradually  became  so  good-natured  that 
he  had  some  difficult}r  in  restraining  himself  from  burst- 
ing out  into  joyous  roarings.  From  the  way  in  which 
I  had  read  my  colleague's  letter  one  might  have  sup- 
posed me  a  man  who  did  not  know  his  alphabet.  I 
took  a  long  while  to  read  it ;  and  Monsieur  Gelis 
might  have  become  very  tired  under  different  circum- 
stances; but  he  was  watching  Jeanne,  and  endured 
the  trial  with  exemplary  patience.  Jeanne  occasion- 


THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         197 

ally  turned  her  face  in  our  direction.  Well,  you  could 
not  expect  a  person  to  remain  perfectly  motionless, 
could  you  ?  Mademoiselle  Prefere  was  arranging  her 
curls,  and  her  bosom  occasionally  swelled  with  little 
sighs.  It  may  be  observed  that  I  have  myself  often 
been  honored  with  these  little  sighs. 

"  Monsieur,"  I  said,  as  I  folded  up  the  letter,  "  I 
shall  be  very  happy  to  be  of  any  service  to  you.  You 
are  occupied  with  researches  in  which  I  myself  have 
always  felt  a  very  lively  interest.  I  have  done  all 
that  lay  in  my  power.  I  know,  as  you  do — and  still 
better  than  you  can  know — how  much  there  remains 
to  do.  The  manuscript  you  asked  for  is  at  your  dis- 
posal ;  you  may  take  it  home  with  you,  but  it  is  not  a 
manuscript  of  the  smallest  kind,  and  I  am  afraid — 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,"  said  Gelis,  "  big  books  have  never 
been  able  to  make  me  afraid  of  them." 

I  begged  the  young  man  to  wait  for  me,  and  I  went 
into  the  next  room  to  get  the  Eegister,  which  I  could 
not  find  at  first,  and  which  I  almost  despaired  of  find- 
ing, as  I  discerned,  from  certain  familiar  signs,  that 
Therese  had  been  setting  the  room  in  order.  But  the 
Register  was  so  big  and  so  heavy  that,  luckily  for  me, 
Therese  had  not  been  able  to  put  it  in  order  as  she 
had  doubtless  wished  to  do.  I  could  scarcely  lift  it 
up  myself ;  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  it  quite 
as  heavy  as  I  could  have  hoped. 

"  Wait,  my  boy,"  I  said,  with  a  smile  which  must 
have  been  very  sarcastic — "  wait !  I  am  going  to  give 


198         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

you  something  to  do  which  will  break  your  arms  first, 
and  afterwards  your  head.  That  will  be  the  first  ven- 
geance of  Sylvestre  Bonnard.  Later  on  we  shall  see 
what  else  there  is  to  be  done." 

When  I  returned  to  the  City  of  Books  I  heard  Mon- 
sieur Gelis  and  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  chatting — chat- 
ting together,  if  you  please !  as  if  they  were  the  best 
friends  in  the  world.  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  being 
full  of  decorum,  did  not  say  anything ;  but  the  other 
two  were  chattering  like  birds.  And  what  about  ? 
About  the  blond  tint  used  by  Venetian  painters !  Yes, 
about  the  "  Venetian  blond."  That  little  serpent  of  a 
Gelis  was  telling  Jeanne  the  secret  of  the  dye  with 
which  the  women  of  Titian  and  of  Veronese  tinted 
their  hair  according  to  the  best  authorities.  And 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  was  expressing  her  opinion  very 
prettily  about  the  blond  of  honey  and  the  blond  of 
gold.  I  understood  that  that  scamp  of  a  Vecellio  was 
responsible — that  they  had  been  bending  over  the  book 
together,  and  that  they  had  been  admiring  either  that 
Doge's  wife  we  had  been  looking  at  awhile  before, 
or  some  other  patrician  woman  of  Venice. 

Never  mind !  I  appeared  with  my  enormous  old 
book,  thinking  that  G61is  was  going  to  make  a  grim- 
ace. It  was  as  much  as  one  could  have  asked  a  porter 
to  carry,  and  my  arms  were  all  sore  just  lifting  it. 
But  the  young  man  caught  it  up  like  a  feather,  and 
slipped  it  under  his  arm  with  a  smile.  Then  he 
thanked  me  with  that  sort  of  brevity  which  I  like, 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.         199 

reminded  me  that  he  had  need  of  my  advice,  and, 
having  made  an  appointment  to  meet  me  another 
day,  took  his  departure  after  bowing  to  us  with  the 
most  perfect  self-possession  conceivable. 

"  He  seems  quite  a  genteel  lad,"  I  said. 

Jeanne  turned  over  a  few  more  pages  of  Yecellio, 
and  made  no  answer. 

"  Aha !"  I  thought  to  myself.  .  .  .  And  then  we  went 
to  Saint-Cloud. 


September — December. 

THE  regularity  with  which  visit  succeeded  visit  to 
the  old  man's  house  thereafter  made  me  feel  very 
grateful  to  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  who  succeeded  at 
last  in  winning  her  right  to  occupy  a  special  corner 
in  the  City  of  Books.  She  now  says  "  my  chair," 
"  my  footstool,"  "  my  pigeon-hole."  Her  pigeon-hole 
is  really  a  small  shelf  properly  belonging  to  the  Poets 
of  La  Champagne,  whom  she  expelled  therefrom  in 
order  to  obtain  a  lodging  for  her  work-bag.  She  is 
very  amiable,  and  I  must  really  be  a  monster  not  to 
like  her.  I  can  only  endure  her — in  the  severest  sig- 
nification of  the  word.  But  what  would  one  not  en- 
dure for  Jeanne's  sake?  Her  presence  lends  to  the 
City  of  Books  a  charm  which  seems  to  hover  about 
it  still  after  she  has  gone.  She  is  very  ignorant ;  but 
she  is  so  finely  gifted  that  whenever  I  show  her  any- 
thing beautiful  I  am  astounded  to  find  that  I  had 


200         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

never  really  seen  it  before,  and  that  it  is  she  who 
makes  me  see  it.  I  have  found  it  impossible  so  far  to 
make  her  follow  some  of  my  ideas,  but  I  have  often 
found  pleasure  in  following  the  whimsical  and  deli- 
cate course  of  her  own. 

A  more  practical  man  than  I  would  attempt  to 
teach  her  to  make  herself  useful ;  but  is  not  the  ca- 
pacity of  being  amiable  a  useful  thing  in  life  ?  With- 
out being  pretty,  she  charms ;  and  the  power  to 
charm  is  perhaps,  after  all,  worth  quite  as  much  as 
the  ability  to  darn  stockings.  Furthermore,  I  am  not 
immortal ;  and  I  doubt  whether  she  will  have  become 
very  old  when  my  notary  (who  is  not  Maitre  Mouche) 
shall  read  to  her  a  certain  paper  which  I  signed  a 
little  while  ago. 

I  do  not  wish  that  any  one  except  myself  should 
provide  for  her,  and  give  her  her  dowry.  I  am  not, 
however,  very  rich,  and  the  paternal  inheritance  did 
not  gain  bulk  in  my  hands.  One  does  not  accumulate 
money  by  poring  over  old  texts.  But  my  books — at 
the  price  which  such  noble  merchandise  fetches  to-day 
— are  worth  something.  "Why,  on  that  shelf  there 
are  some  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century  for  which 
bankers  would  bid  against  princes !  And  I  think  that 
those  "  Heures  "  of  Simon  Yostre  would  not  be  readily 
overlooked  at  the  Hotel  Silvestre  any  more  than  would 
those  Preces  Pice  compiled  for  the  use  of  Queen 
Claude.  I  have  taken  great  pains  to  collect  and  to 
preserve  all  those  rare  and  curious  editions  which 


THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD.         201 

people  the  City  of  Books ;  and  for  a  long  time  I  used 
to  believe  that  they  were  as  necessary  to  my  life  as 
air  and  light.  I  have  loved  them  well,  and  even  now 
I  cannot  prevent  myself  from  smiling  at  them  and 
caressing  them.  Those  morocco  bindings  are  so  de- 
lightful to  the  eye!  Those  old  vellums  are  so  soft 
to  the  touch !  There  is  not  a  single  one  among  those 
books  which  is  not  worthy,  by  reason  of  some  special 
merit,  to  command  the  respect  of  an  honorable  man. 
What  other  owner  would  ever  know  how  to  dip  into 
them  in  the  proper  way  ?  Can  I  be  even  sure  that 
another  owner  would  not  leave  them  to  decay  in  neg- 
lect, or  mutilate  them  in  the  moment  of  some  igno- 
rant whim  ?  Into  whose  hands  will  fall  that  incom- 
parable copy  of  the  "  Histoire  de  1'Abbaye  de  Saint- 
Germain  -  des  -  Pres,"  on  the  margins  of  which  the 
author  himself,  in  the  person  of  Jacques  Bouillard, 
made  such  substantial  notes  in  his  own  handwriting  ? 
.  .  .  Master  Bonnard,  you  are  an  old  fool!  Your 
housekeeper — poor  soul! — is  nailed  down  upon  her 
bed  with  a  merciless  attack  of  rheumatism.  Jeanne 
is  to  come  with  her  chaperon,  and,  instead  of  think- 
ing how  you  are  going  to  receive  them,  you  are  think- 
ing about  a  thousand  stupidities.  Sylvestre  Bonnard, 
you  will  never  succeed  at  anything  in  this  world,  and 
it  is  I  myself  who  tell  you  so ! 

And  at  this  very  moment  I  catch  sight  of  them  from 
my  window,  as  they  get  out  of  the  omnibus.  Jeanne 
leaps  down  like  a  kitten;  but  Mademoiselle  Prefere 


202         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

intrusts  herself  to  the  strong  arm  of  the  conductor, 
with  the  shy  grace  of  a  Virginia  recovering  after  the 
shipwreck,  and  this  time  quite  resigned  to  being  saved. 
Jeanne  looks  up,  sees  me,  laughs,  and  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  has  to  prevent  her  from  waving  her  umbrella 
at  me  as  a  friendly  signal.  There  is  a  certain  stage  of 
civilization  to  which  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  never  can 
be  brought.  You  can  teach  her  all  the  arts  if  you 
like  (it  is  not  exactly  to  Mademoiselle  Prefere  that  I 
am  now  speaking) ;  but  you  will  never  be  able  to 
teach  her  perfect  manners.  As  a  charming  girl  she 
makes  the  mistake  of  being  charming  only  in  her  own 
way.  Only  an  old  fool  like  myself  could  forgive  her 
pranks.  As  for  young  fools — and  there  are  several 
of  them  still  to  be  found — I  do  not  know  what  they 
would  think  about  it;  and  what  they  might  think  is 
none  of  my  business.  Just  look  at  her  running  along 
the  sidewalk,  wrapped  up  in  her  cloak,  with  her  hat 
tilted  back  on  her  head,  and  her  feather  fluttering  in 
the  wind,  like  a  schooner  in  full  rig !  And  really  she 
has  a  grace  of  poise  and  motion  which  suggests  a  fine 
sailing  vessel — so  much  so,  indeed,  that  she  makes  me 
remember  seeing  one  day,  when  I  was  at  Havre  .  .  . 
But,  Bonnard,  my  friend,  how  many  times  is  it  neces- 
sary to  tell  you  that  your  housekeeper  is  in  bed,  and 
that  you  must  go  and  open  the  door  yourself  ? 

Open,  Old  Man  Winter !  'tis  Spring  who  rings  the 
bell. 

It  is  Jeanne  herself — Jeanne  all  flushed  like  a  rose. 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        203 

Mademoiselle  Prefere,  indignant  and  out  of  breath, 
has  still  another  whole  flight  to  climb  before  reaching 
our  lobby. 

I  explained  the  condition  of  my  housekeeper,  and 
proposed  that  we  should  dine  at  a  restaurant.  But 
Therese — all-powerful  still,  even  upon  her  sick-bed — 
decided  that  we  should  dine  at  home,  whether  we 
wanted  to  or  no.  Respectable  people,  in  her  opinion, 
never  dined  at  restaurants.  Moreover,  she  had  made 
all  necessary  arrangements  —  the  dinner  had  been 
bought ;  the  concierge  would  cook  it. 

The  audacious  Jeanne  insisted  upon  going  to  see 
whether  the  old  woman  wanted  anything.  As  you 
might  suppose,  she  was  sent  back  to  the  parlor  in 
short  order,  but  not  so  harshly  as  I  had  feared. 

"  If  I  want  anybody  to  do  anything  for  me,  which, 
thank  God,  I  do  not,"  Therese  had  replied,  "  I  would 
get  somebody  less  delicate  and  dainty  than  you  are. 
What  I  want  is  rest.  That  is  a  merchandise  which 
is  not  sold  at  fairs  under  the  sign  of  Motus-un-doigt- 
sur-la-bouche.  Go  and  have  your  fun,  and  don't  stay 
here — for  old  age  might  be  catching." 

Jeanne,  after  telling  us  what  she  had  said,  added 
that  she  liked  very  much  to  hear  old  Therese  talk. 
Whereupon  Mademoiselle  Prefere  reproached  her  for 
expressing  such  unladylike  tastes. 

I  tried  to  excuse  her  by  citing  the  example  of  Mo- 
liere.  Just  at  that  moment  it  came  to  pass  that,  while 
climbing  the  ladder  to  get  a  book,  she  upset  a  whole 


204        THE  CRIME  OP  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

shelf -row.  There  was  a  heavy  crash;  and  Made- 
moiselle Prefere,  being,  of  course,  a  very  delicate 
person,  almost  fainted.  Jeanne  quickly  followed  the 
books  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  She  made  one  think 
of  a  kitten  suddenly  transformed  into  a  woman, 
catching  mice  which  had  been  transformed  into  old 
books.  While  picking  them  up,  she  found  one  which 
happened  to  interest  her,  and  she  began  to  read  it, 
squatting  down  upon  her  heels.  It  was  the  "  Prince 
Grenouille,"  she  told  us.  Mademoiselle  Prefere  took 
occasion  to  complain  that  Jeanne  had  so  little  taste 
for  poetry.  It  was  impossible  to  get  her  to  recite 
Casimir  de  Lavigne's  poem  on  the  death  of  Joan  of 
Arc  without  mistakes.  It  was  the  very  most  she  could 
do  to  learn  "  Le  Petit  Savoyard."  The  schoolmistress 
did  not  think  that  any  one  should  read  the  "  Prince 
Grenouille"  before  learning  by  heart  the  stanzas  to 
Duperner ;  and,  carried  away  by  her  enthusiasm,  she 
began  to  recite  them  in  a  voice  sweeter  than  the  bleat- 
ing of  a  sheep : 

" '  Ta  douleur,  Duperrier,  sera  done  6teraelle, 

Et  les  tristes  discours 
Que  te  met  en  1'esprit  1'amitie  paternelle 
L'augmenteront  toujours ; 


"'Je  sals  de  quela  appas  son  enfance  etait  plcine, 

Et  n'ai  pas  entrepris, 
Injurieux  ami,  de  consoler  ta  peine 
Avecque  son  mfepris.1 " 


THE  CRIME  OF  STL  VESTRE  BONNARD.       205 

Then  in  ecstasy  she  exclaimed, 

"How  beautiful  that  is!  What  harmony!  How 
is  it  possible  for  any  one  not  to  admire  such  exquisite, 
such  touching  verses!  But  why  did  Malherbe  call 
that  poor  Monsieur  Duperrier  his  '  injurieux  ami '  at 
a  time  when  he  had  been  so  severely  tried  by  the 
death  of  his  daughter?  Injurieux  ami — you  must 
acknowledge  that  the  term  was  very  harsh." 

I  explained  to  this  poetical  person  that  the  phrase 
" Injv/rieux  ami"  which  shocked  her  so  much  was  an 
apposition,  etc.,  etc.  What  I  said,  however,  had  so 
little  effect  towards  clearing  her  head  that  she  was 
seized  with  a  severe  and  prolonged  fit  of  sneezing. 
Meanwhile  it  was  evident  that  the  history  of  "  Prince 
Grenouille  "  had  proved  extremely  funny ;  for  it  was 
all  that  Jeanne  could  do,  as  she  crouched  down  there 
on  the  carpet,  to  keep  herself  from  bursting  into  a 
wild  fit  of  laughter.  But  when  she  had  finished  with 
the  prince  and  princess  of  the  story,  and  the  multi- 
tude of  their  children,  she  assumed  a  very  suppliant 
expression,  and  begged  me  as  a  great  favor  to  allow 
her  to  put  on  a  white  apron  and  go  to  the  kitchen  to 
help  in  getting  the  dinner  ready. 

"  Jeanne,"  I  replied,  with  the  gravity  of  a  master, 
"I  think  that  if  it  is  a  question  of  breaking  plates, 
knocking  off  the  edges  of  dishes,  denting  all  the  pans, 
and  smashing  all  the  skimmers,  the  person  whom  The- 
rese  has  set  to  work  in  the  kitchen  already  will  be 
to  perform  lier  task  without  assistance;  for  ft 


206         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

seems  to  me  at  this  very  moment  I  can  hear  disas- 
trous noises  in  that  kitchen.  But  anyhow,  Jeanne,  I 
will  charge  you  with  the  duty  of  preparing  the  des- 
sert. So  go  and  get  your  white  apron ;  I  will  tie  it 
on  for  you." 

Accordingly,  I  solemnly  knotted  the  linen  apron 
about  her  waist;  and  she  rushed  into  the  kitchen, 
where  she  proceeded  at  once — as  we  discovered  later 
on — to  prepare  various  dishes  unknown  to  Vatel,  un- 
known even  to  that  great  Careine  who  began  his  treat- 
ise upon  pieces  montees  with  these  words :  "  The  Fine 
Arts  are  five  in  number;  Painting,  Music,  Poetry, 
Sculpture,  and  Architecture  —  whereof  the  principal 
branch  is  Confectionery"  But  I  had  no  reason  to  be 
pleased  with  this  little  arrangement — for  Mademoi- 
selle Prefere,  on  finding  herself  alone  with  me,  began 
to  act  after  a  fashion  which  filled  me  with  frightful 
anxiety.  She  gazed  upon  me  with  eyes  full  of  tears 
and  flames,  and  uttered  enormous  sighs. 

"  Oh,  how  I  pity  you !"  she  said.  "  A  man  like  you 
— a  man  so  superior  as  you  are — having  to  live  alone 
with  a  coarse  servant  (for  she  is  certainly  coarse,  that 
is  incontestable)!  How  cruel  such  a  life  must  be! 
You  have  need  of  repose — you  have  need  of  comfort, 
of  care,  of  every  kind  of  attention;  you  might  fall 
sick.  And  yet  there  is  no  woman  who  would  not 
deem  it  an  honor  to  bear  your  name,  and  to  share 
your  existence.  No,  there  is  none;  my  own  heart 
tells  me  so." 


THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD.        207 

And  she  squeezed  both  hands  over  that  heart  of 
hers — always  so  ready  to  fly  away. 

I  was  driven  almost  to  distraction.  I  tried  to  make 
Mademoiselle  Pref  ere  comprehend  that  I  had  no  inten- 
tion whatever  of  changing  my  habits  at  so  advanced 
an  age,  and  that  I  found  just  as  much  happiness  in 
life  as  my  character  and  my  circumstances  rendered 
possible. 

"  No,  you  are  not  happy !"  she  cried.  "  You  need 
to  have  always  beside  you  a  mind  capable  of  compre- 
hending your  own.  Shake  off  your  lethargy,  and  cast 
your  eyes  about  you.  Your  professional  connections 
are  of  the  most  extended  character,  and  you  must 
have  charming  acquaintances.  One  cannot  be  a  Mem- 
ber of  the  Institute  without  going  into  society.  See, 
judge,  compare.  No  sensible  woman  would  refuse 
you  her  hand.  I  am  a  woman,  Monsieur;  my  in- 
stinct never  deceives  me — there  is  something  within 
me  which  assures  me  that  you  would  find  happiness 
in  marriage.  "Women  are  so  devoted,  so  loving  (not 
all,  of  course,  but  some) !  And,  then,  they  are  so  sen- 
sitive to  glory.  Remember,  that-  at  your  age  one  has 
need,  like  (Edipus,  of  an  Egeria !  Your  cook  has  no 
more  strength — she  is  deaf,  she  is  infirm.  If  anything 
should  happen  to  you  at  night!  Oh!  it  makes  me 
shudder  even  to  think  of  it !" 

And  she  really  shuddered — she  closed  her  eyes, 
clenched  her  hands,  stamped  on  the  floor.  Great 
was  my  dismay.  With  awful  intensity  she  resumed, 


208        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"Your  health — your  dear  health!  The  health  of 
a  Member  of  the  Institute !  How  joyfully  I  would 
shed  the  very  last  drop  of  my  blood  to  preserve  the 
life  of  a  scholar,  of  a  litterateur,  of  a  man  of  worth. 
And  any  woman  who  would  not  do  as  much,  I  would 
despise  her!  Let  me  tell  you,  Monsieur — I  used  to 
know  the  wife  of  a  great  mathematician,  a  man  who 
used  to  fill  whole  blank-books  with  calculations — so 
many  blank-books  that  they  filled  all  the  closets  in 
the  house.  He  had  heart-disease,  and  he  was  visibly 
pining  away.  And  I  saw  that  wife  of  his,  sitting 
there  beside  him,  perfectly  calm !  I  could  not  endure 
it.  I  said  to  her  one  day,  '  My  dear,  you  have  no 
heart!  If  I  were  in  your  place  I  would  do  ...  I 
would  do  ...  I  do  not  know  what  I  would  do !' " 

She  paused  for  want  of  breath.  My  situation  was 
terrible.  As  for  telling  Mademoiselle  Prefere  what  I 
really  thought  about  her  advice — that  was  something 
which  I  could  not  even  dream  of  daring  to  do.  For 
to  fall  out  with  her  was  to  lose  the  chance  of  seeing 
Jeanne.  So  I  resolved  to  take  the  matter  quietly. 
In  any  case,  she  was  in  my  house:  that  considera- 
tion helped  me  to  treat  her  with  something  of  cour- 
tesy. 

"  I  am  very  old,  Mademoiselle,"  I  answered  her, 
"  and  I  am  very  much  afraid  that  your  advice  comes 
to  me  rather  too  late  in  life.  Still,  I  will  think  about 
it.  In  the  meanwhile  let  me  beg  of  you  to  be  calm. 
I  think  a  glass  of  eau  sucree  would  do  you  good !" 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        209 

To  my  great  surprise,  these  words  calmed  her  at 
once  ;  and  I  saw  her  sit  down  very  quietly  in  her  cor- 
ner, close  to  her  pigeon-hole,  upon  her  chair,  with  her 
feet  upon  her  footstool. 

The  dinner  was  a  complete  failure.  Mademoiselle 
Pre"fere,  who  seemed  lost  in  a  brown  study,  never  no- 
ticed the  fact.  As  a  rule  I  am  very  sensitive  about 
such  misfortunes ;  but  this  one  caused  Jeanne  so 
much  delight  that  at  last  I  could  not  help  enjoy- 
ing it  myself.  Even  at  my  age  I  had  not  been 
able  to  learn  before  that  a  chicken,  raw  on  one  side 
and  burned  on  the  other,  was  a  funny  thing;  but 
Jeanne's  bursts  of  laughter  taught  me  that  it  was. 
That  chicken  caused  us  to  say  a  thousand  very  witty 
things,  which  I  have  forgotten ;  and  I  was  enchanted 
that  it  had  not  been  properly  cooked.  Jeanne  put  it 
back  to  roast  again  ;  then  she  broiled  it ;  then  she 
stewed  it  with  butter.  And  every  time  it  came  back 
to  the  table  it  was  much  less  comestible  and  much 
more  hilarious  than  before.  When  we  did  eat  it,  at 
last,  it  had  become  a  thing  for  which  there  is  no  name 
in  any  cuisine. 

The  almond  cake  was  much  more  extraordinary.  It 
was  brought  to  the  table  in  the  pan,  because  it  never 
could  have  been  got  out  of  it.  I  invited  Jeanne  to 
help  us  all  to  a  piece,  thinking  that  I  was  going  to 
embarrass  her ;  but  she  broke  the  pan  and  gave  each 
of  us  a  fragment.  To  think  that  anybody  at  my  age 
could  eat  such  things  was  an  idea  possible  only  to  a 
H 


• 
210         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

very  artless  mind.  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  suddenly 
awakened  from  her  dream,  indignantly  pushed  away 
the  sugary  splinter  of  earthenware,  and  deemed  it  op- 
portune to  inform  me  that  she  herself  was  exceeding- 
ly skilful  in  making  confectionery. 

"  Ah !"  exclaimed  Jeanne,  with  an  air  of  surprise 
not  altogether  without  malice. 

Then  she  wrapped  all  the  fragments  of  the  pan  in 
a  piece  of  paper,  for  the  purpose  of  giving  them  to  her 
little  playmates — especially  to  the  three  little  Mouton 
girls,  who  are  naturally  inclined  to  gluttony. 

Secretly,  however,  I  was  beginning  to  feel  very  un- 
easy. It  did  not  now  seem  in  any  way  possible  to 
keep  much  longer  upon  good  terms  with  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  since  her  matrimonial  fury  had  thus  burst 
forth.  And  that  lady  gone,  good-by  to  Jeanne!  I 
took  advantage  of  a  moment  while  the  sweet  soul  was 
busy  putting  on  her  cloak,  in  order  to  ask  Jeanne  to 
tell  me  exactly  what  her  own  age  was.  She  was 
eighteen  years  and  one  month  old.  I  counted  on  my 
fingers,  and  found  she  would  not  come  of  age  for  an- 
other two  years  and  eleven  months.  And  how  would 
we  be  able  to  manage  during  all  that  time  ? 

At  the  door  Mademoiselle  Prefere  squeezed  my 
hand  with  so  much  meaning  that  I  fairly  shook  from 
head  to  foot. 

"  Good-by,"  I  said  very  gravely  to  the  young  girl. 
"  But  listen  to  me  a  moment :  your  friend  is  very  old, 
and  might  perhaps  fail  you  when  you  need  him  most 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.         211 

Promise  me  never  to  fail  in  your  duty  to  yourself,  and 
then  I  shall  have  no  fear.  God  keep  you,  my  child !" 

After  closing  the  door  behind  them,  I  opened  the 
window  to  get  a  last  look  at  her  as  she  was  going 
away.  But  the  night  was  dark,  and  I  could  see  only 
two  vague  shadows  flitting  across  the  quay.  I  heard 
the  vast  deep  hum  of  the  city  rising  up  about  me; 
and  I  suddenly  felt  a  great  sinking  at  my  heart. 

Poor  child ! 


December  15. 

THE  King  of  Thule  kept  a  goblet  of  gold  which 
his  dying  mistress  had  bequeathed  him  as  a  souvenir. 
When  about  to  die  himself,  after  having  drank  from  it 
for  the  last  time,  he  threw  the  goblet  into  the  sea. 
And  I  keep  this  diary  of  memories  even  as  that  old 
prince  of  the  mist-haunted  seas  kept  his  carven  gob- 
let ;  and  even  as  he  flung  away  at  last  his  love-trinket, 
so  will  1  burn  this  my  book  of  souvenirs.  Assuredly 
it  Is  not  through  any  arrogant  avarice,  nor  through 
any  egotistical  pride,  that  I  shall  destroy  this  record 
of  an  humble  life — it  is  only  because  I  fear  lest  those 
things  which  are  dear  and  sacred  to  me  might  appear 
to  others,  because  of  my  inartistic  manner  of  expres- 
sion, either  commonplace  or  absurd. 

I  do  not  say  this  in  view  of  what  is  going  to  follow. 
A.bsurd  I  certainly  must  have  been  when,  having  been 
invited  to  dinner  by  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  I  took  my 


212        THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

seat  in  a  bergere  (it  was  really  a  lergere)  at  the  right 
hand  of  that  alarming  person.  The  table  had  been  set 
in  a  little  parlor;  and  I  could  observe  from  the  poor 
appearance  of  the  display  that  the  schoolmistress  was 
one  of  those  ethereal  souls  who  soar  above  terrestrial 
things.  Chipped  plates,  unmatched  glasses,  knives 
with  loose  handles,  forks  with  yellow  prongs — there 
was  absolutely  nothing  wanting  to  spoil  the  appetite 
of  an  honest  man. 

I  was  assured  that  the  dinner  had  been  cooked  for 
me — for  me  alone — although  Maitre  Mouche  had  also 
been  invited.  Mademoiselle  Prefere  must  have  im- 
agined that  I  had  Sarmatian  tastes  on  the  subject  of 
butter ;  for  the  butter  which  she  offered  me,  served  up 
in  little  thin  pats,  was  excessively  rancid. 

The  roast  very  nearly  poisoned  me.  But  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  Maitre  Mouche  and  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  discourse  upon  virtue.  I  said  the  pleasure — 
I  ought  to  have  said  the  shame ;  for  the  sentiments  to 
which  they  gave  expression  soared  far  beyond  the 
range  of  my  vulgar  nature. 

"What  they  said  proved  to  me  as  clear  as  day  that 
devotedness  was  their  daily  bread,  and  that  self-sacri- 
fice was  not  less  necessary  to  their  existence  than  air 
and  water.  Observing  that  I  was  not  eating,  Mad- 
emoiselle Prefere  made  a  thousand  efforts  to  over- 
come that  which  she  was  good  enough  to  term  my 
"  discretion."  Jeanne  was  not  of  the  party,  because, 
I  was  told,  her  presence  at  it  would  have  been  con- 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         213 

trary  to  the  rules,  and  would  have  wounded  the  feel- 
ings of  the  other  school-children,  among  whom  it  was 
necessary  to  maintain  a  certain  equality.  I  secretly 
congratulated  her  upon  having  escaped  from  the  Mer- 
ovingian butter;  from  the  huge  radishes,  empty  as 
funeral-urns ;  from  the  coriaceous  roast,  and  from 
various  other  curiosities  of  diet  to  which  I  had  ex- 
posed myself  for  the  love  of  her. 

The  extremely  disconsolate-looking  servant  served 
up  some  liquid  to  which  they  gave  the  name  of  cream 
—I  do  not  know  why — and  vanished  away  like  a 
ghost. 

Then  Mademoiselle  Prefere  related  to  Maitre  Mou- 
che,  with  extraordinary  transports  of  emotion,  all  that 
she  had  said  to  me  in  the  City  of  Books,  during  the 
time  that  my  housekeeper  was  sick  in  bed.  Her  ad- 
miration for  a  Member  of  the  Institute,  her  terror  of 
seeing  me  sick  and  alone,  and  the  certainty  she  felt 
that  any  intelligent  woman  would  be  proud  and  happy 
to  share  my  existence — she  concealed  nothing,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  added  many  fresh  follies  to  the  recital. 
Maitre  Mouche  kept  nodding  his  head  in  approval 
while  cracking  nuts.  Then,  after  all  this  verbiage,  he 
demanded,  with  an  agreeable  smile,  what  my  answer 
had  been. 

Mademoiselle  Prefere,  pressing  one  hand  upon  her 
heart  and  extending  the  other  towards  me,  cried  out, 

"  He  is  so  affectionate,  so  superior,  so  good,  and  so 
great !  He  answered.  .  .  .  But  I  could  never,  because 


214         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

I  am  only  an  humble  woman — I  could  never  repeat 
the  words  of  a  Member  of  the  Institute.  I  can  only 
utter  the  substance  of  them.  He  answered,  'Yes,  I 
understand  you — yes.' " 

And  with  these  words  she  reached  out  and  seized 
one  of  my  hands.  Then  Maitre  Mouche,  also  over- 
whelmed with  emotion,  arose  and  seized  my  other 
hand. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said,  "  permit  me  to  offer  my  con- 
gratulations." 

Several  times  in  my  life  I  have  known  fear;  but 
never  before  had  I  experienced  any  fright  of  so  nau- 
seating a  character.  A  sickening  terror  came  upon 
me. 

I  disengaged  my  two  hands,  and,  rising  to  my  feet, 
so  as  to  give  all  possible  seriousness  to  my  words,  I 
said, 

"Madame,  either  I  explained  myself  very  badly 
when  you  were  at  my  house,  or  I  have  totally  mis- 
understood you  here  in  your  own.  In  either  case,  a 
positive  declaration  is  absolutely  necessary.  Permit 
me,  Madame,  to  make  it  now,  very  plainly.  No — I 
never  did  understand  you;  I  am  totally  ignorant  of 
the  nature  of  this  marriage  project  that  you  have  been 
planning  for  me — if  you  really  have  been  planning  one. 
In  any  event,  I  would  not  think  of  marrying.  It 
would  be  an  unpardonable  folly  at  my  age,  and  even 
now,  at  this  moment,  I  cannot  conceive  how  a  sensible 
person  like  you  could  ever  have  advised  me  to  marry. 


THE  CRIME  0*  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.         215 

Indeed,  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  believe  that  I  must 
have  been  mistaken,  and  that  you  never  said  anything 
of  the  kind  before.  In  the  latter  case,  please  to  ex- 
cuse an  old  man  totally  unfamiliar  with  the  usages  of 
society,  unaccustomed  to  the  conversation  of  ladies, 
and  very  contrite  for  his  mistake." 

Maitre  Mouche  went  back  very  softly  to  his  place, 
where,  not  finding  any  more  nuts  to  crack,  he  began 
to  whittle  a  cork. 

Mademoiselle  Prefere,  after  staring  at  me  for  a  few 
moments  with  an  expression  in  her  little  round  dry 
eyes  which  I  had  never  seen  there  before,  suddenly 
resumed  her  customary  sweetness  and  graciousness. 
Then  she  cried  out,  in  honeyed  tones, 

"Oh!  these  learned  men! — these  studious  men! 
They  are  all  like  children.  Yes,  Monsieur  Bonnard, 
you  are  a  real  child !" 

Then,  turning  to  the  notary,  who  still  sat  very 
quietly  in  his  corner,  with  his  nose  over  his  cork,  she 
exclaimed,  in  beseeching  tones3 

"  Oh,  do  not  accuse  him !  Do  not  accuse  him !  Do 
not  think  any  evil  of  him,  I  beg  of  you !  Do  not  think 
it  at  all !  Must  I  ask  you  upon  my  knees  ?" 

Maitre  Mouche  continued  to  examine  all  the  various 
aspects  and  surfaces  of  his  cork  without  making  any 
further  manifestation. 

I  was  very  indignant ;  and  I  know  that  my  cheeks 
must  have  been  extremely  red,  if  I  could  judge  by  the 
flush  of  heat  which  I  felt  rise  to  my  face.  This  would 


216        THE  CRIME  OF  87LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

enable  me  to  explain  the  words  I  heard  through  all 
the  buzzing  in  my  ears : 

"  I  am  frightened  about  him !  our  poor  friend !  .  .  . 
Monsieur  Mouche,  be  kind  enough  to  open  a  window ! 
It  seems  to  me  that  a  compress  of  arnica  would  do  him 
some  good." 

I  rushed  out  into  the  street  with  an  unspeakable 
feeling  of  shame. 

"  My  poor  Jeanne !" 

December  %0. 

I  PASSED  eight  days  without  hearing  anything  fur- 
ther in  regard  to  the  Prefere  establishment.  Then, 
feeling  myself  unable  to  remain  any  longer  without 
some  news  of  Clementine's  daughter,  and  feeling  fur- 
thermore that  I  owed  it  as  a  duty  to  myself  not  to 
cease  my  visits  to  the  school  without  more  serious 
cause,  I  took  my  way  to  Aux  Ternes. 

The  parlor  seemed  to  me  more  cold,  more  damp, 
more  inhospitable,  and  more  insidious  than  ever  be- 
fore; and  the  servant  much  more  silent  and  much 
more  scared.  I  asked  to  see  Mademoiselle  Jeanne; 
but,  after  a  very  considerable  time,  it  was  Mademoiselle 
Prefere  who  made  her  appearance  instead  —  severe 
and  pale,  with  lips  compressed  and  a  hard  look  in  her 
eyes. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  folding  her  arms  over  her 
pelerine, "  I  regret  very  much  that  I  cannot  allow  you 


THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVE8TRE  BONNARD.         217 

to  see  Mademoiselle  Alexandre  to-day ;  but  I  cannot 
possibly  do  it." 

"  "Why  not  ?"  I  asked,  in  astonishment. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  replied,  "  the  reasons  which  compel 
me  to  request  that  your  visits  shall  be  less  frequent 
hereafter  are  of  an  excessively  delicate  nature ;  and  I 
must  beg  you  to  spare  me  the  unpleasantness  of  men- 
tioning them." 

"  Madame,"  I  replied,  "  I  have  been  authorized  by 
Jeanne's  guardian  to  see  his  ward  every  day.  Will 
you  please  to  inform  me  of  your  reasons  for  opposing 
the  will  of  Monsieur  Mouche  ?" 

"The  guardian  of  Mademoiselle  Alexandre,"  she 
replied  (and  she  dwelt  upon  that  word  "guardian"  as 
upon  a  solid  support),  "  desires,  quite  as  strongly  as  I 
myself  do,  that  your  assiduities  may  come  to  an  end 
as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Then,  if  that  be  the  case,"  I  said,  "  be  kind  enough 
to  let  me  know  his  reasons  and  your  own." 

She  looked  up  at  the  little  spiral  of  paper  on  the 
ceiling,  and  then  replied,  with  stern  composure, 

"  You  insist  upon  it  ?  Well,  although  such  explana- 
tions are  very  painful  for  a  woman  to  make,  I  will 
yield  to  your  exactions.  This  house,  Monsieur,  is  an 
honorable  house.  I  have  my  responsibility.  I  have 
to  watch  like  a  mother  over  each  one  of  my  pupils. 
Your  assiduities  in  regard  to  Mademoiselle  Alexandre 
could  not  possibly  be  continued  without  serious  injury 
to  the  young  girl  herself ;  and  it  is  my  duty  to  insist 
that  they  shall  cease." 


218         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"  I  do  not  really  understand  you,"  I  replied — and  I 
was  telling  the  plain  truth.  Then  she  deliberately  re- 
sumed: 

"  Your  assiduities  in  this  house  are  being  interpret- 
ed, by  the  most  respectable  and  the  least  suspicious 
persons,  in  such  a  manner  that  I  find  myself  obliged, 
both  in  the  interest  of  my  establishment  and  in  the  in- 
terest of  Mademoiselle  Alexandre,  to  see  that  they  end 
at  once." 

"Madame,"  I  cried,  "I  have  heard  a  great  many 
silly  things  in  my  life,  but  never  anything  so  silly  as 
what  you  have  just  said !" 

She  answered  me  very  quietly, 

"Your  words  of  abuse  will  not  affect  me  in  the 
slightest.  When  one  has  a  duty  to  accomplish,  one  is 
strong  enough  to  endure  all." 

And  she  pressed  her  pelerine  over  her  heart  once 
more — not  perhaps  on  this  occasion  to  restrain,  but 
doubtless  only  to  caress  that  generous  heart. 

"  Madame,"  I  said,  shaking  my  finger  at  her,  "  you 
have  wantonly  aroused  the  indignation  of  an  aged 
man.  Be  good  enough  to  act  in  such  a  fashion  that 
the  old  man  may  be  able  at  least  to  forget  your  exist- 
ence, and  do  not  add  fresh  insults  to  those  which  I 
have  already  sustained  from  your  lips.  I  give  you 
fair  warning  that  I  shall  never  cease  to  look  after 
Mademoiselle  Alexandre ;  and  that  should  you  at- 
tempt to  do  her  any  harm,  in  any  manner  whatsoever, 
you  will  have  serious  reason  to  regret  it !" 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.        219 

The  more  I  became  excited,  the  more  she  became 
cool ;  and  she  answered  in  a  tone  of  superb  indiffer- 
ence: 

"  Monsieur,  I  am  much  too  well  informed  in  regard 
to  the  nature  of  the  interest  which  you  take  in  this 
young  girl,  not  to  withdraw  her  immediately  from 
that  very  surveillance  with  which  you  threaten  me. 
After  observing  the  more  than  equivocal  intimacy  in 
which  you  are  living  with  your  housekeeper,  I  ought 
to  have  taken  measures  at  once  to  render  it  impossible 
for  you  ever  to  come  into  contact  with  an  innocent 
child.  In  the  future  I  shall  certainly  do  it.  If  up  to 
this  time  I  have  been  too  trustful,  it  is  for  Mademoi- 
selle Alexandre,  and  not  for  you,  to  reproach  me  with 
it.  But  she  is  too  artless  and  too  pure — thanks  to  me ! 
— ever  to  have  suspected  the  nature  of  that  danger 
into  which  you  were  trying  to  lead  her.  I  scarcely 
suppose  that  you  will  place  me  under  the  necessity  of 
enlightening  her  upon  the  subject." 

"  Come,  my  poor  old  Bonnard,"  I  said  to  myself,  as 
I  shrugged  my  shoulders — "  so  you  had  to  live  as  long 
as  this  in  order  to  learn  for  the  first  time  exactly  what 
a  wicked  woman  is.  And  now  your  knowledge  of  the 
subject  is  complete." 

I  went  out  without  replying ;  and  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  observing,  from  the  sudden  flush  which  overspread 
the  face  of  the  schoolmistress,  that  my  silence  had 
wounded  her  far  more  than  my  words. 

As  I  passed  through  the  court  I  looked  about  me  in 


220        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

every  direction  for  Jeanne.  She  was  watching  for  me, 
and  she  ran  to  me 

"  If  an}Tbody  touches  one  little  hair  of  your  head, 
Jeanne,  you  write  me !  Good-by !" 

"  No,  not  good-by." 

I  replied. 

"  Well,  no — not  good-by !    Write  to  me !" 

I  went  straight  to  Madame  de  Gabry's  residence. 

"Madame  is  at  Rome  with  Monsieur.  Did  not 
Monsieur  know  it  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  I  replied.     Madame  wrote  me."  .  .  . 

She  had  indeed  written  me  in  regard  to  her  leaving 
home;  but  my  head  must  have  become  very  much 
confused,  so  that  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  The 
servant  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  opinion,  for  he 
looked  at  me  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  signify,  "  Mon- 
sieur Bonnard  is  doting" — and  he  leaned  down  over 
the  balustrade  of  the  stairway  to  see  if  I  was  not  go- 
ing to  do  something  extraordinary  before  I  got  to  the 
bottom.  But  I  descended  the  stairs  rationally  enough ; 
and  then  he  drew  back  his  head  in  disappointment. 

On  returning  home  I  was  informed  that  Monsieur 
Gelis  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  parlor.  (This  young 
man  has  become  a  constant  visitor.  His  judgment  is 
at  fault  betimes ;  but  his  mind  is  not  at  all  common- 
place.) On  this  occasion,  however,  his  usually  welcome 
visit  only  embarrassed  me.  "  Alas !"  I  thought  to  my- 
self, "  I  will  be  sure  to  say  something  r«»v  stupid  fa 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.        221 

my  young  friend  to-day,  and  he  also  will  think  that 
my  faculties  are  becoming  impaired.  But  still  I  can- 
not really  explain  to  him  that  I  had  first  been  de- 
manded in  wedlock,  and  subsequently  traduced  as  a 
man  wholly  devoid  of  morals — that  even  Therese  had 
become  an  object  of  suspicion — and  that  Jeanne  re- 
mains in  the  power  of  the  most  rascally  woman  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  I  am  certainly  in  an  admirable 
state  of  mind  for  conversing  about  Cistercian  abbeys 
with  a  young  and  mischievously  minded  man.  Never 
theless,  we  shall  see — we  shall  try."  . . . 

But  Therese  stopped  me : 

"  How  red  you  are,  Monsieur !"  she  exclaimed,  in 
a  tone  of  reproach. 

"  It  must  be  the  spring,"  I  answered. 

She  cried  out, 

"  The  spring ! — in  the  month  of  December  ?" 

That  is  a  fact !  this  is  December.  Ah !  what  is  the 
matter  with  my  head?  what  a  fine  help  I  am  going 
to  be  to  poor  Jeanne ! 

"  Therese,  take  my  cane ;  and  put  it,  if  you  possibly 
can,  some  place  where  I  shall  be  able  to  find  it  again." 

"  Good-day,  Monsieur  Gelis.    How  are  you  ?" 


Undated. 

NEXT  morning  the  old  boy  wanted  to  get  up ;  but 
the  old  boy  could  not  get  up.    A  merciless  invisible 


222         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

hand  kept  him  down  upon  his  bed.  Finding  himself 
immovably  riveted  there,  the  old  boy  resigned  himself 
to  remain  motionless ;  but  his  thoughts  kept  running 
in  all  directions. 

He  must  have  had  a  very  violent  fever ;  for  Made- 
moiselle Pref  ere,  the  Abbots  of  Saint-Germain-des-Pres, 
and  the  servant  of  Madame  de  Gabry  appeared  to  him 
in  divers  fantastic  shapes.  The  figure  of  the  servant 
in  particular  lengthened  weirdly  over  his  head,  grim- 
acing like  some  gargoyle  of  a  cathedral.  Then  it 
seemed  to  me  that  there  were  a  great  many  people, 
much  too  many  people,  in  my  bedroom. 

This  bedroom  of  mine  is  furnished  after  the  anti- 
quated fashion.  The  portrait  of  my  father  in  full  uni- 
form, and  the  portrait  of  my  mother  in  her  cashmere 
dress,  are  suspended  on  the  wall.  The  wall-paper 
is  covered  with  green  foliage -designs.  I  am  aware 
of  all  this,  and  I  am  even  conscious  that  everything  is 
faded,  very  much  faded.  But  an  old  man's  room  does 
not  require  to  be  pretty ;  it  is  enough  that  it  should 
be  clean,  and  Therese  sees  to  that.  At  all  events  my 
room  is  sufficiently  decorated  to  please  a  mind  like 
mine,  which  has  always  remained  somewhat  childish 
and  dreamy.  There  are  things  hanging  on  the  wall 
or  scattered  over  the  tables  and  shelves  which  usually 
please  my  fancy  and  amuse  me.  But  to-day  it  would 
seem  as  if  all  those  objects  had  suddenly  conceived 
some  kind  of  ill-will  against  me.  They  have  all  be- 
come garish,  grimacing,  menacing.  That  statuette, 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         22!3 

modelled  after  one  of  the  Theological  Virtues  of  Notre- 
Dame  de  Brou,  always  so  ingenuously  graceful  in  its 
natural  condition,  is  now  making  contortions  and 
putting  out  its  tongue  at  me.  And  that  beautiful 
miniature — in  which  one  of  the  most  suave  pupils  of 
Jehan  Fouquet  depicted  himself,  girdled  with  the 
cord -girdle  of  the  Sons  of  St.  Francis,  offering  his 
book,  on  bended  knee,  to  the  good  Duke  d'Angouleme 
—who  has  taken  it  out  of  its  frame  and  put  in  its 
place  a  great  ugly  cat's  head,  which  stares  at  me  with 
phosphorescent  eyes?  And  the  designs  on  the  wall- 
paper have  also  turned  into  heads  —  hideous  green 
heads.  .  .  .  But  no — I  am  sure  that  wall-paper  must 
have  foliage-designs  upon  it  at  this  moment  just  as 
it  had  twenty  years  ago,  and  nothing  else.  .  .  .  But 
no,  again — I  was  right  before — they  are  heads,  with 
eyes,  noses,  mouths  —  they  are  heads!  .  .  .  Ah!  now 
I  understand!  they  are  both  heads  and  foliage -de- 
signs at  the  same  time.  I  wish  I  could  not  see  them 
at  all. 

And  there,  on  my  right,  the  pretty  miniature  of  the 
Franciscan  has  come  back  again ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  can  only  keep  it  in  its  frame  by  a  tremendous 
effort  of  will,  and  that  the  moment  I  get  tired  the 
ugly  cat-head  will  appear  in  its  place.  Certainly  I 
am  not  delirious;  I  can  see  Therese  very  plainly, 
standing  at  the  foot  of  my  bed ;  I  can  hear  her  speak- 
ing to  me  perfectly  well,,  and  I  would  be  able  to  an- 
swer her  quite  satisfactorily  if  I  were  not  kept  so 


224         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

busy  in  trying  to  compel  the  various  objects  about  me 
to  maintain  their  natural  aspect. 

Here  is  the  doctor  coming.  I  never  sent  for  him, 
but  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  see  him.  He  is  an  old 
neighbor  of  mine ;  I  have  never  been  of  much  service 
to  him,  but  I  like  him  very  much.  Even  if  I  do  not 
say  much  to  him,  I  have  at  least  full  possession  of  all 
my  faculties,  and  I  even  find  myself  extraordinarily 
crafty  and  observing  to-day,  for  I  note  all  his  gest- 
ures, his  every  look,  the  least  wrinkling  of  his  face. 
But  the  doctor  is  very  cunning,  too,  and  I  cannot  real- 
ly tell  what  he  thinks  about  me.  The  deep  thought 
of  Goethe  suddenly  comes  to  my  mind,  and  I  exclaim, 

"  Doctor,  the  old  man  has  consented  to  allow  him- 
self to  become  sick ;  but  he  does  not  intend,  this  time 
at  least,  to  make  any  further  concessions  to  nature." 

Neither  the  doctor  nor  Therese  laugh  at  my  little 
joke.  I  suppose  they  cannot  have  understood  it. 

The  doctor  goes  away ;  evening  comes ;  and  all  sorts 
of  strange  shadows  begin  to  shape  themselves  about  my 
bed-curtains,  forming  and  dissolving  by  turns.  And 
other  shadows — ghosts — throng  by  before  me;  and 
through  them  I  can  see  distinctly  the  impassive  face 
of  my  faithful  servant.  And  suddenly  g,  cry,  a  shrill 
cry,  a  great  cry  of  distress,  rends  my  ears.  Was  it 
you  who  called  me,  Jeanne  ? 

The  day  is  over ;  and  the  shadows  take  their  places 
at  my  bedside  to  remain  with  me  all  through  the  long 
night. 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVE8TRE  BONNARD.        225 

Then  morning  comes — I  feel  a  peace,  a  vast  peace, 
wrapping  me  all  about. 

Art  Thou  about  to  take  me  into  Thy  rest,  my  dear 
Lord  God? 


February,  186—. 

THE  doctor  is  quite  jovial.  It  seems  that  I  am  do- 
ing him  a  great  deal  of  credit  by  being  able  to  get 
out  of  bed.  If  I  must  believe  him,  innumerable  disor- 
ders must  have  pounced  down  upon  my  poor  old  body 
all  at  the  same  time. 

These  disorders,  which  are  the  terror  of  ordinary 
mankind,  have  names  which  are  the  terror  of  philolo- 
gists. They  are  hybrid  names,  half  Greek,  half  Latin, 
with  terminations  in  "  ite,"  indicating  the  inflamma- 
tory condition,  and  in  "  algia,"  indicating  pain.  The 
doctor  gives  me  all  their  names,  together  with  a  cor- 
responding number  of  adjectives  ending  in  "  ic,"  which 
serve  to  characterize  their  detestable  qualities.  In 
short,  they  represent  a  good  half  of  that  most  perfect 
copy  of  the  Dictionary  of  Medicine  contained  in  the 
too-authentic  box  of  Pandora. 

"Doctor,  what  an  excellent  common -sense  story 
the  story  of  Pandora  is! — if  I  were  a  poet  I  would 
put  it  into  French  verse.  Shake  hands,  doctor !  You 
have  brought  me  back  to  life ;  I  forgive  you  for 
it.  You  have  given  me  back  to  my  friends ;  I  thank 
you  for  it.  You  say  I  am  quite  strong.  That  may 
15 


226         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

be,  that  may  be ;  but  I  have  lasted  a  very  long  time. 
I  am  a  very  old  article  of  furniture ;  I  might  be  very 
satisfactorily  compared  to  my  father's  arm-chair.  It 
was  an  arm-chair  which  the  good  man  had  inherited, 
and  in  which  he  used  to  lounge  from  morning  until 
evening.  Twenty  times  a  day,  when  I  was  quite  a  baby, 
I  used  to  climb  up  and  seat  myself  on  one  of  the  arms 
of  that  old-fashioned  chair.  So  long  as  the  chair  re- 
mained intact,  nobody  paid  any  particular  attention 
to  it.  But  it  began  to  limp  on  one  foot;  and  then 
folks  began  to  say  that  it  was  a  very  good  chair.  Af- 
terwards it  became  lame  in  three  legs,  squeaked  with 
the  fourth  leg,  and  lost  nearly  half  of  both  arms.  Then 
everybody  would  exclaim,  *  What  a  strong  chair !' 
They  wondered  how  it  was  that  after  its  arms  had 
been  worn  off  and  all  its  legs  knocked  out  of  plumb, 
it  could  yet  preserve  the  recognizable  shape  of  a 
chair,  remain  nearly  erect,  and  still  be  of  some  service. 
The  horse-hair  came  out  of  its  body  at  last,  and  it  gave 
up  the  ghost.  And  when  Cyprien,  our  servant,  sawed 
up  its  mutilated  members  for  fire- wood,  everybody  re- 
doubled their  cries  of  admiration.  '  Oh !  what  an  ex- 
cellent— what  a  marvellous  chair!  It  was  the  chair 
of  Pierre  Sylvestre  Bonnard,  the  dry-goods  merchant 
—of  Epeminede  Bonnard,  his  son — of  Jean-Baptiste 
Bonnard,  the  Pyrrhonian  philosopher  and  Chief  of  the 
Third  Maritime  Division.  Oh!  what  a  robust  and 
venerable  chair !'  In  reality  it  was  a  dead  chair.  "Well, 
doctor,  I  am  that  chair.  You  think  I  am  solid  because 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        227 

I  have  been  able  to  resist  an  attack  which  would  have 
killed  many  people,  and  which  only  killed  me  three 
fourths.  Much  obliged !  I  feel  none  the  less  that  I 
am  something  which  has  been  irremediably  damaged." 

The  doctor  tries  to  prove  to  me,  with  the  help  of 
enormous  Greek  and  Latin  words,  that  I  am  really  in 
a  very  good  condition.  It  would,  of  course,  be  useless 
to  attempt  any  demonstration  of  this  kind  in  so  lucid 
a  language  as  French.  However,  I  allow  him  to  per- 
suade me  at  last ;  and  I  see  him  to  the  door. 

"  Good !  good  !"  exclaimed  Therese ;  "  that  is  the 
way  to  put  the  doctor  out  of  the  house !  Just  do  the 
same  thing  once  or  twice  again,  and  he  will  not  come 
to  see  you  any  more — and  so  much  the  better !" 

"Well,  Therese,  now  that  I  have  become  such  a 
hearty  man  again,  do  not  refuse  to  give  me  my  let- 
ters. I  am  sure  there  must  be  quite  a  big  bundle  of 
letters,  and  it  would  be  very  wicked  to  keep  me  any 
longer  from  reading  them." 

Therese,  after  some  little  grumbling,  gave  me  my 
letters.  But  what  did  it  matter  ? — I  looked  at  all  the 
envelopes,  and  saw  that  no  one  of  them  had  been  ad- 
dressed by  the  little  hand  which  I  so  much  wish  I 
could  see  here  now,  turning  over  the  pages  of  the  Ve- 
cellio.  I  pushed  the  whole  bundle  of  letters  away: 
they  had  no  more  interest  for  me. 


228         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

April-June. 

IT  was  a  hotly  contested  engagement. 

"Wait,  Monsieur,  until  I  have  put  on  my  clean 
things,"  exclaimed  Therese,  "and  I  will  go  out  with 
you  this  time  also ;  I  will  carry  your  folding-stool  as 
I  have  been  doing  these  last  few  days,  and  we  will  go 
and  sit  down  somewhere  in  the  sun." 

Therese  actually  thinks  me  infirm.  I  have  been 
sick,  it  is  true,  but  there  is  an  end  to  all  things !  Ma- 
dame Malady  has  taken  her  departure  quite  a  while 
ago,  and  it  is  now  more  than  three  months  since  her 
pale  and  gracious-visaged  handmaid,  Dame  Convales- 
cence, politely  bade  me  farewell.  If  I  were  to  listen 
to  my  housekeeper,  I  would  become  a  veritable  Moii- 
sieur  Argant,  and  I  would  wear  a  nightcap  with  rib- 
bons for  the  rest  of  my  life.  .  . .  No  more  of  this ! — I 
propose  to  go  out  by  myself !  Therese  will  not  hear  of 
it.  She  takes  my  folding-stool,  and  wants  to  follow  me. 

"  Therese,  to-morrow,  if  you  like,  we  will  take  our 
seats  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  wall  of  La  Petite  Prov- 
ence, and  stay  there  just  as  long  as  you  please.  But  to- 
day I  have  some  very  important  affairs  to  attend  to." 

"  So  much  the  better !  But  your  affairs  are  not  the 
only  affairs  in  this  world." 

I  beg,  I  scold ;  I  make  my  escape. 

It  is  quite  a  pleasant  day.  With  the  aid  of  a  cab, 
and  the  help  of  God,  I  trust  to  be  able  to  fulfil  my 
purpose. 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        229 

There  is  the  wall  on  which  is  painted  in  great  blue 
letters  the  words  "  Pensionnat  de  Demoiselles  tenu  pwr 
Mademoiselle  Virginie  Prefere"  There  is  the  iron 
gate  which  would  give  free  entrance  into  the  court- 
yard if  it  were  ever  opened.  But  the  lock  is  rusty, 
and  sheets  of  zinc  put  up  behind  the  bars  protect  from 
indiscreet  observation  those  dear  little  souls  to  whom 
Mademoiselle  Prefere  doubtless  teaches  modesty,  sin- 
cerity, justice,  and  disinterestedness.  There  is  a  win- 
dow, with  iron  bars  before  it,  and  panes  daubed  over 
with  white  paint — the  window  of  the  bath-rooms,  like 
a  glazed  eye — the  only  aperture  of  the  building  open- 
ing upon  the  exterior  world.  As  for  the  house-door, 
through  which  I  entered  so  often,  but  which  is  now 
closed  against  me  forever,  it  is  just  as  I  saw  it  the  last 
time,  with  its  little  iron-grated  wicket.  The  single 
stone  step  in  front  of  it  is  deeply  worn,  and,  without 
having  very  good  eyes  behind  my  spectacles,  I  can 
see  the  little  white  scratches  on  the  stone  which  have 
been  made  by  the  nails  in  the  shoes  of  the  girls  going 
in  and  out.  And  why  cannot  I  also  go  in  ?  I  have  a 
feeling  that  Jeanne  must  be  suffering  a  great  deal  in 
this  dismal  house,  and  that  she  calls  my  name  in  se- 
cret. I  cannot  go  away  from  the  gate!  A  strange 
anxiety  takes  hold  of  me.  I  pull  the  bell.  The  scared- 
looking  servant  comes  to  the  door,  even  much  more 
scared-looking  than  when  I  saw  her  the  last  time. 
Strict  orders  have  been  given  :  I  am  not  to  be  allowed 
to  see  Mademoiselle  Jeanne.  I  beg  the  servant  to  be 


230         THE  CRIME  OF  87LVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

so  kind  as  to  tell  me  how  the  child  is.  The  servant, 
after  looking  to  her  right  and  then  to  her  left,  tells 
me  that  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  is  well,  and  then  shuts 
the  door  in  my  face.  And  I  am  all  alone  in  the  street 
again." 

How  many  times  since  then  have  I  wandered  in  the 
same  way  under  that  wall,  and  passed  before  the  lit- 
tle door, — full  of  shame  and  despair  to  find  myself 
even  weaker  than  that  poor  child,  who  has  no  other 
help  or  friend  except  myself  in  the  world ! 

Finally  I  overcame  my  repugnance  sufficiently  to 
call  upon  Maitre  Mouche.  The  first  thing  I  remarked 
was  that  his  office  is  much  more  dusty  and  much  more 
mouldy  this  year  than  it  was  last  year.  The  notary 
made  his  appearance  after  a  moment,  with  his  familiar 
stiff  gestures,  and  his  restless  eyes  quivering  behind 
his  eye-glasses.  I  made  my  complaints  to  him.  He 
answered  me.  .  .  .  But  why  should  I  write  down,  even 
in  a  blank-book  which  I  am  going  to  burn,  my  recol- 
lections of  a  downright  scoundrel?  He  takes  sides 
with  Mademoiselle  Prefere,  whose  intelligent  mind 
and  irreproachable  character  he  has  long  appreciated. 
He  does  not  feel  himself  in  a  position  to  decide  the 
nature  of  the  question  at  issue;  but  he  must  assure 
me  that  appearances  have  been  greatly  against  me. 
That  of  course  makes  no  difference  to  me.  He  adds — 
(and  this  does  make  some  difference  to  me) — that  the 
small  sum  which  had  been  placed  in  his  hands  to  de- 
fray the  expenses  of  the  education  of  his  ward  has 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.          23i 

been  expended,  and  that,  in  view  of  the  circumstances, 
he  cannot  but  greatly  admire  the  disinterestedness  of 
Mademoiselle  Prefere  in  consenting  to  allow  Made- 
moiselle Jeanne  to  remain  with  her. 

A  magnificent  light,  the  light  of  a  perfect  day, 
floods  the  sordid  place  with  its  incorruptible  torrent, 
and  illuminates  the  person  of  that  man ! 

And  outside  it  pours  down  its  splendor  upon  all  the 
wretchedness  of  a  populous  quarter. 

How  sweet  it  is, — this  light  with  which  my  eyes 
have  so  long  been  filled,  and  which  ere  long  I  must 
forever  cease  to  enjoy !  I  wander  out  with  my  hands 
behind  me,  dreaming  as  I  go,  following  the  line  of  the 
fortifications ;  and  I  find  myself  after  a  while,  I  know 
not  how,  in  an  out-of-the-way  suburb  full  of  misera- 
ble little  gardens.  By  the  dusty  roadside  I  observe 
a  plant  whose  flower,  at  once  dark  and  splendid,  seems 
worthy  of  association  with  the  noblest  and  purest 
mourning  for  the  dead.  It  is  a  columbine.  Our  fa- 
thers called  it  "  Our  Lady's  Glove" — le  gant  de  Notre- 
Dame.  Only  such  a  "  Notre-Dame "  as  might  make 
herself  very,  very  small,  for  the  sake  of  appearing  to 
little  children,  could  ever  slip  her  dainty  fingers  into 
the  narrow  capsule  of  that  flower. 

And  there  is  a  big  bumble-bee  who  tries  to  force 
himself  into  the  flower,  brutally ;  but  his  mouth  can- 
not reach  the  nectar,  and  the  poor  glutton  strives  and 
strives  in  vain.  He  has  to  give  up  the  attempt,  and 
conies  out  of  the  flower  all  smeared  over  with  pollen. 


232         THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

He  flies  off  in  his  own  heavy  lumbering  way ;  but  there 
are  not  many  flowers  in  this  portion  of  the  suburbs, 
which  has  been  defiled  by  the  soot  and  smoke  of  fac- 
tories. So  he  comes  back  to  the  columbine  again,  and 
this  time  he  pierces  the  corolla  and  sucks  the  honey 
through  the  little  hole  which  he  has  made :  I  should 
never  have  thought  that  a  bumble-bee  had  so  much 
sense !  Why,  that  is  admirable !  The  more  I  observe 
them,  the  more  do  insects  and  flowers  fill  me  with  as- 
tonishment. I  am  like  that  good  Rollin  who  went 
wild  with  delight  over  the  flowers  of  his  peach-trees. 
I  wish  I  could  have  a  fine  garden,  and  live  at  the  verge 
of  a  wood. 


August,  September. 

IT  occurred  to  me  one  Sunday  morning  to  watch 
for  the  moment  when  Mademoiselle  Prefere's  pupils 
were  leaving  the  school  in  procession  to  attend  mass 
at  the  parish  church.  I  watched  them  passing  two 
by  two, — the  little  ones  first  with  very  serious  faces. 
There  were  three  of  them  all  dressed  exactly  alike — 
dumpy,  plump,  important  -  looking  little  creatures, 
whom  I  recognized  at  once  as  the  Mouton  girls.  Their 
elder  sister  is  the  artist  who  drew  that  terrible  head 
of  Tatius,  King  of  the  Sabines.  Beside  the  column, 
the  assistant  school-teacher,  with  her  prayer-book  in 
her  hand,  was  gesturing  and  frowning.  Then  came 
the  next  oldest  class,  and  finally  the  big  girls,  all  whia- 


THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD.        233 

pering  to  each  other,  as  they  went  by.    But  I  did  not 
see  Jeanne. 

I  went  to  police-headquarters  and  inquired  whether 
they  did  not  have,  filed  away  somewhere  or  other, 
any  information  regarding  the  establishment  in  the 
Rue  Demours.  I  succeeded  in  inducing  them  to  send 
some  female  inspectors  there.  These  returned  bring- 
ing with  them  the  most  favorable  reports  about  the 
establishment.  In  their  opinion  the  Prefere  School 
was  a  model  school.  It  is  evident  that  if  I  were  to 
force  an  investigation,  Mademoiselle  Prefere  would 
receive  academic  honors. 


October  3. 

THIS  Thursday  being  a  school-holiday  I  had  the 
chance  of  meeting  the  three  little  Mouton  girls  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  Rue  Demours.  After  bowing  to  their 
mother,  I  asked  the  eldest,  who  appears  to  be  about 
ten  years  old,  how  was  her  playmate,  Mademoiselle 
Jeanne  Alexandre. 

The  little  Mouton  girl  answered  me,  all  in  a  breath, 
"Jeanne  Alexandre  is  not  my  playmate.  She  is 
only  kept  in  the  school  for  charity — so  they  make  her 
sweep  the  class-rooms.  It  was  Mademoiselle  who  said 
so.  And  Jeanne  Alexandre  is  a  bad  girl :  so  they  lock 
her  up  in  the  dark  room — and  it  serves  her  right — and 
I  am  a  good  girl — and  I  am  never  locked  up  in  the 
dark  room." 


234         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

The  three  little  girls  resumed  their  walk,  and  Ma- 
dame  Mouton  followed  close  behind  them,  looking 
back  over  her  broad  shoulder  at  me,  in  a  very  sus- 
picious manner. 

Alas !  I  find  myself  reduced  to  expedients  of  a 
questionable  character.  Madame  de  Gabry  will  not 
come  back  to  Paris  for  at  least  three  months  more,  at 
the  very  soonest.  Without  her,  I  have  no  tact,  I  have 
no  common-sense — I  am  nothing  but  a  cumbersome, 
clumsy,  mischief -making  machine. 

Nevertheless,  I  cannot  possibly  permit  them  to  make 
Jeanne  a  boarding-school  servant ! 


December  28. 

THE  idea  that  Jeanne  was  obliged  to  sweep  the 
rooms  had  become  absolutely  unbearable. 

The  weather  was  dark  and  cold.  Night  had  already 
begun.  I  rang  the  school-door  bell  with  the  tranquil- 
lity of  a  resolute  man.  The  moment  that  the  timid 
servant  opened  the  door,  I  slipped  a  gold  piece  into 
her  hand,  and  promised  her  another  if  she  would  ar- 
range it  so  that  I  could  see  Mademoiselle  Alexandre. 
Her  answer  was, 

"  In  one  hour  from  now,  at  the  grated  window." 

And  she  slammed  the  door  in  my  face  so  rudely 
that  she  knocked  my  hat  into  the  gutter.  I  waited 
for  one  very  long  hour  in  a  violent  snow-storm ;  then  I 
approached  the  window.  Nothing !  The  wind  raged, 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.         235 

and  the  snow  fell  heavily.  "Workmen  passing  by  with 
their  implements  on  their  shoulders,  and  their  heads 
bent  down  to  keep  the  snow  from  coming  in  their 
faces,  rudely  jostled  me.  Still  nothing.  I  began  to 
fear  I  had  been  observed.  I  knew  that  I  had  done 
wrong  in  bribing  a  servant,  but  I  was  not  a  bit  sorry 
for  it.  Woe  to  the  man  who  does  not  know  how  to 
break  through  social  regulations  in  case  of  necessity ! 
Another  quarter  of  an  hour  passed.  Nothing.  At 
last  the  window  was  partly  opened. 

"  Is  that  you,  Monsieur  Bonnard  ?" 

"  Is  that  you,  Jeanne  ? — tell  me  at  once  what  hag 
become  of  you." 

"  I  am  well — very  well." 

"  But  what  else !" 

"  They  have  put  me  in  the  kitchen,  and  I  have  to 
sweep  the  school-rooms." 

"  In  the  kitchen !  Sweeping — you !  Gracious  good- 
ness !" 

"  Yes,  because  my  guardian  does  not  pay  for  my 
schooling  any  more." 

"  Gracious  goodness !  Your  guardian  seems  to  me 
to  be  a  thorough  scoundrel." 

"  Then  you  know —  " 

"What?" 

"  Oh !  don't  ask  me  to  tell  you  that ! — but  I  would 
rather  die  than  find  myself  alone  with  him  again." 

"  And  why  did  you  not  write  to  me  ?" 

"  I  was  watched." 


236        THE   CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

At  that  instant  I  formed  a  resolve  which  nothing 
in  this  world  could  have  induced  me  to  change.  I 
did,  indeed,  have  some  idea  that  I  might  be  acting 
contrary  to  law ;  but  I  did  not  give  myself  the  least 
concern  about  that  idea.  And,  being  firmly  resolved, 
I  was  able  to  be  prudent.  I  acted  with  remarkable 
coolness. 

"  Jeanne,"  I  asked, "  tell  me !  does  that  room  you 
are  in  open  into  the  court-yard  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Can  you  open  the  street-door  from  the  inside  your- 
self?" 

"  Yes, — if  there  is  nobody  in  the  porter's  lodge." 

"  Go  and  see  if  there  is  any  one  there,  and  be  care- 
ful that  nobody  observes  you." 

Then  I  waited,  keeping  a  watch  on  the  door  and 
window. 

In  six  or  seven  seconds  Jeanne  reappeared  behind 
the  bars,  and  said, 

"  The  servant  is  in  the  porter's  lodge." 

"  Very  well,"  I  said, "  have  you  a  pen  and  ink  8" 

"No." 

"A  pencil?" 

."Yes." 

"  Pass  it  out  here." 

I  took  an  old  newspaper  out  of  my  pocket,  and — 
in  a  wind  which  blew  almost  hard  enough  to  put  the 
street-lamps  out,  in  a  downpour  of  snow  which  almost 
blinded  me — I  managed  to  wrap  up  and  address  that 
paper  to  Mademoiselle  Prefere. 


THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         237 

While  I  was  writing  I  asked  Jeanne, 

"  When  the  postman  passes  he  puts  the  papers  and 
letters  in  the  box,  doesn't  he  ?  He  rings  the  bell  and 
goes  away?  Then  the  servant  opens  the  letter-box 
and  takes  whatever  she  finds  there  to  Mademoiselle 
Pref ere  immediately :  is  not  that  about  the  way  the 
thing  is  managed  whenever  any  mail  comes  ?" 

Jeanne  thought  it  was. 

"Then  we  shall  soon  see.  Jeanne,  go  and  watch 
again ;  and,  as  soon  as  the  servant  leaves  the  lodge, 
open  the  door  and  come  out  here  to  me." 

Having  said  this,  I  put  my  newspaper  in  the  box, 
gave  the  bell  a  tremendous  pull,  and  then  hid  myself 
in  the  embrasure  of  a  neighboring  door. 

I  might  have  been  there  several  minutes,  when  the 
little  door  quivered,  then  opened,  and  a  young  girl's 
head  made  its  appearance  through  the  opening.  I 
took  hold  of  it ;  I  pulled  it  towards  me. 

"  Come,  Jeanne !  come !" 

She  stared  at  me  uneasily.  Certainly  she  must  have 
been  afraid  that  I  had  gone  mad;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
I  was  very  rational  indeed. 

"  Come,  my  child !  come !" 

"  Where  T 

"  To  Madame  de  Gabry's." 

Then  she  took  my  arm.  For  some  time  we  ran  like 
a  couple  of  thieves.  But  running  is  an  exercise  ill- 
suited  to  one  as  corpulent  as  I  am,  and,  finding  myself 
out  of  breath  at  last,  I  stopped  and  leaned  upon  some- 


238        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

thing  which  turned  out  to  be  the  stove  of  a  dealer  in 
roasted  chestnuts,  who  was  doing  business  at  the  cor- 
ner of  a  wine-seller's  shop,  where  a  number  of  cabmen 
were  drinking.  One  of  them  asked  us  if  we  did  not 
want  a  cab.  Most  assuredly  we  wanted  a  cab !  The 
driver,  after  setting  down  his  glass  on  the  zinc  coun- 
ter, climbed  upon  his  seat  and  urged  his  horse  forward. 
We  were  saved. 

"Phew!"  I  panted,  wiping  my  forehead.  For,  in 
spite  of  the  cold,  I  was  perspiring  profusely. 

What  seemed  very  odd  was  that  Jeanne  appeared 
to  be  much  more  conscious  than  I  was  of  the  enormity 
which  we  had  committed.  She  looked  very  serious 
indeed,  and  was  visibly  uneasy. 

"  In  the  kitchen !"  I  cried  out,  with  indignation. 

She  shook  her  head,  as  if  to  say,  "  Well,  there  or 
anywhere  else,  what  does  it  matter  to  me?"  And,  by 
the  light  of  the  street-lamps,  I  observed  with  pain  that 
her  face  was  very  thin  and  her  features  all  pinched. 
I  did  not  find  in  her  any  of  that  vivacity,  any  of  those 
bright  impulses,  any  of  that  quickness  of  expression, 
which  used  to  please  me  so  much.  Her  gaze  had  be- 
come timid,  her  gestures  constrained,  her  whole  atti- 
tude melancholy.  I  took  her  hand — a  little  cold  hand, 
which  had  become  all  hardened  and  bruised.  The 
poor  child  must  have  suffered  very  much.  I  ques- 
tioned her.  She  told  me  very  quietly  that  Mademoi- 
selle Prefere  had  summoned  her  one  day,  and  called 
her  a  little  monster  and  a  little  viper,  for  some  reason 
which  she  had  never  been  able  to  learn. 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.         239 

She  had  added,  "  You  shall  not  see  Monsieur  Bon- 
nard  any  more ;  for  he  has  been  giving  you  bad  advice, 
and  he  has  conducted  himself  in  a  most  shameful  man- 
ner towards  me."  "  I  then  said  to  her, '  That,  Made- 
moiselle, you  will  never  be  able  to  make  me  believe.' 
Then  Mademoiselle  slapped  my  face  and  sent  me  back 
to  the  school-room.  The  announcement  that  I  would 
never  be  allowed  to  see  you  again  made  me  feel  as  if 
night  had  come  down  upon  me.  Don't  you  know 
those  evenings  when  one  feels  so  sad  to  see  the  dark- 
ness come  ? — well,  just  imagine  such  a  moment  stretched 
out  into  weeks — into  whole  months !  Don't  you  re- 
member my  little  Saint-George  ?  Up  to  that  time  I 
had  worked  at  it  as  well  as  I  could — just  simply  to 
work  at  it — just  to  amuse  myself.  But  when  I  lost 
all  hope  of  ever  seeing  you  again  I  took  my  little  wax 
figure,  and  I  began  to  work  at  it  in  quite  another  way. 
I  did  not  try  to  model  it  with  wooden  matches  any 
more,  as  I  had  been  doing,  but  with  hair-pins.  I  even 
made  use  of  epingles  d  la  neige.  But  perhaps  you 
do  not  know  what  epingles  d  la  neige  are?  Well,  I 
became  more  particular  about  it  than  you  can  possibly 
imagine.  I  put  a  dragon  on  Saint-George's  helmet  ; 
and  I  passed  hours  and  hours  in  making  a  head  and 
eyes  and  a  tail  for  the  dragon.  Oh,  the  eyes!  the 
eyes,  above  all !  I  never  stopped  working  at  them  till 
I  got  them  so  that  they  had  red  pupils  and  white  eye- 
lids and  eye-brows  and  everything !  I  know  I  am  very 
silly ;  I  had  an  idea  that  I  was  going  to  die  as  soon  as 


240         THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

my  little  Saint-George  would  be  finished.  I  worked  at 
it  during  recreation-hours,  and  Mademoiselle  Prefere 
used  to  let  me  alone.  One  day  I  learned  that  you 
were  in  the  parlor  with  the  schoolmistress ;  I  watched 
for  you ;  we  said  Au  revoir  !  that  day  to  each  other. 
I  was  a  little  consoled  by  seeing  you.  But,  some  time 
after  that,  my  guardian  came  and  wanted  to  make  me 
go  out  with  him  one  Thursday.  I  refused  to  go  to  his 
house, — but  please  don't  ask  me  why,  Monsieur.  He 
answered  me,  quite  gently,  that  I  was  a  very  whimsi- 
cal little  girl.  And  then  he  left  me  alone.  But  the 
next  day  Mademoiselle  Prefere  came  to  me  with  such 
a  wicked  look  on  her  face  that  I  was  really  afraid. 
She  had  a  letter  in  her  hand.  'Mademoiselle,'  she 
said  to  me,  'I  am  informed  by  your  guardian  that 
he  has  spent  all  the  money  which  belonged  to  you. 
Don't  be  afraid!  I  do  not  intend  to  abandon  you; 
but,  you  must  acknowledge  yourself,  it  is  only  right 
that  you  should  earn  your  own  livelihood.'  Then  she 
put  me  to  work  house-cleaning ;  and  whenever  I  made 
a  mistake  she  would  lock  me  up  in  the  garret  for  days 
together.  And  that  is  what  happened  to  me  since  I 
saw  you  last.  Even  if  I  had  been  able  to  write  to  you, 
I  do  not  know  whether  I  should  have  done  it,  because 
I  did  not  think  you  could  possibly  take  me  away  from 
the  school ;  and,  as  Maitre  Mouche  did  not  come  back 
to  see  me,  there  was  no  hurry.  I  thought  I  could 
wait  for  a  while  in  the  garret  and  the  kitchen." 
"  Jeanne,"  I  cried,  "  even  if  we  should  have  to  flee 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.         241 

to  Oceanica,  the  abominable  Prefere  shall  never  get 
hold  of  you  again.  I  will  take  a  great  oath  on  that ! 
And  why  should  we  not  go  to  Oceanica  ?  The  climate 
is  very  healthy ;  and  I  read  'in  a  newspaper  the  other 
day  that  they  have  pianos  there.  But,  in  the  mean- 
time, let  us  go  to  the  house  of  Madame  de  Gabry,  who 
returned  to  Paris,  as  luck  would  have  it,  some  three 
or  four  days  ago ;  for  you  and  I  are  two  innocent  fools, 
and  we  have  great  need  of  some  one  to  help  us." 

Even  as  I  was  speaking  Jeanne's  features  suddenly 
became  pale,  and  seemed  to  shrink  into  lifelessness ; 
her  eyes  became  all  dim ;  her  lips,  half  open,  contract- 
ed with  an  expression  of  pain.  Then  her  head  sank 
sideways  on  her  shoulder ; — she  had  fainted. 

I  lifted  her  in  my  arms,  and  carried  her  up  Madame 
de  Gabry's  staircase  like  a  little  baby  asleep.  But  I 
was  myself  on  the  point  of  fainting,  from  emotional 
excitement  and  fatigue  together,  when  she  came  to 
herself  again. 

"  Ah !  it  is  you,"  she  said :  "  so  much  the  better !" 

Such  was  our  condition  when  we  rang  our  friend's 
door-bell. 


Same  da/y. 

IT  was  eight  o'clock.    Madame  de  Gabry,  as  might 
be  supposed,  was  very  much  surprised  by  our  unex- 
pected appearance.     But  she  welcomed  the  old  man 
and  the  child  with  that  glad  kindness  which  always 
16 


242         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

expressed  itself  in  her  beautiful  gestures.  It  seems 
to  me, — if  I  might  use  that  language  of  devotion  so 
familiar  to  her, — it  seems  to  me  as  though  some  heav- 
enly grace  streams  from  her  hands  whenever  she  opens 
them ;  and  even  the  perfume  which  impregnates  her 
robes  seems  to  inspire  the  sweet  calm  zeal  of  charity 
and  good  works.  Surprised  she  certainly  was;  but 
she  asked  us  no  questions, — and  that  silence  seemed 
to  me  admirable. 

"  Madame,"  I  said  to  her,  "  we  have  both  come  to 
place  ourselves  under  your  protection.  And,  first  of 
all,  we  are  going  to  ask  you  to  give  us  some  supper — 
or  to  give  Jeanne  some,  at  least ;  for  a  moment  ago, 
in  the  carriage,  she  fainted  from  weakness.  As  for 
myself,  I  could  not  eat  a  bite  at  this  late  hour  with- 
out passing  a  night  of  agony  in  consequence.  I  hope 
that  Monsieur  de  Gabry  is  well." 

"  Oh,  he  is  here !"  she  said. 

And  she  called  him  immediately. 

"  Come  in  here,  Paul !  Come  and  see  Monsieur  Bon- 
nard  and  Mademoiselle  Alexandre." 

He  came.  It  was  a  pleasure  for  me  to  see  his  frank 
broad  face,  and  to  press  his  strong  square  hand.  Then 
we  went,  all  four  of  us,  into  the  dining-room ;  and  while 
some  cold  meat  was  being  cut  for  Jeanne — which  she 
never  touched  notwithstanding — I  related  our  advent- 
ure. Paul  de  Gabry  asked  me  permission  to  smoke 
his  pipe,  after  which  he  listened  to  me  in  silence. 
When  I  had  finished  my  recital  he  scratched  the  short 


THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTBE  BONNARD.        243 

stiff  beard  upon  his  chin,  and  uttered  a  tremendous 
"  Sacrebleu  /"  But,  seeing  Jeanne  stare  at  each  of  us 
in  turn,  with  a  frightened  look  in  her  face,  he  added : 

"  We  will  talk  about  this  matter  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. Come  into  my  study  for  a  moment ;  I  have  an 
old  book  to  show  you  that  I  want  you  to  tell  me  some- 
thing about." 

I  followed  him  into  his  study,  where  the  steel  of 
shot-guns  and  hunting-knives,  suspended  against  the 
dark  hangings,  glimmered  in  the  lamp-light.  There, 
pulling  me  down  beside  him  upon  a  leather-covered 
sofa,  he  exclaimed, 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  Great  God !  Do  you 
know  what  you  have  done?  Corruption  of  a  minor, 
abduction,  kidnapping !  You  have  got  yourself  into  a 
nice  mess !  You  have  simply  rendered  yourself  liable 
to  a  sentence  of  imprisonment  of  not  less  than  five 
nor  more  than  ten  years." 

"  Mercy  on  us !"  I  cried ;  "  ten  years  imprisonment 
for  having  saved  an  innocent  child." 

"  That  is  the  law !"  answered  Monsieur  de  Gabry. 
"  You  see,  my  dear  Monsieur  Bonnard,  I  happen  to 
know  the  Code  pretty  well — not  because  I  ever  stud- 
ied law  as  a  profession,  but  because,  as  mayor  of  Lu- 
sance,  I  was  obliged  to  teach  myself  something  about 
it  in  order  to  be  able  to  give  information  to  my  sub- 
ordinates. Mouche  is  a  rascal ;  that  woman  Prefere  is 
a  vile  hussy ;  and  you  are  a  ...  Well !  I  really  cannot 
find  any  word  strong  enough  to  signify  what  you  are !" 


244        THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

After  opening  his  book -case,  where  dog-collars, 
riding -whips,  stirrups,  spurs,  cigar -boxes,  and  a  few 
books  of  reference  were  indiscriminately  stowed  away, 
he  took  out  of  it  a  copy  of  the  Code,  and  began  to 
turn  over  the  leaves. 

" '  CRIMES  AND  MISDEMEANORS  '  .  .  .  '  SEQUESTRATION 
OF  PERSONS  ' — that  is  not  your  case.  .  .  .  '  ABDUCTION  OF 
MINORS  ' — here  we  are.  .  .  . '  ARTICLE  354 : —  Whosoever 
shall,  either  by  fraud  or  violence,  have  abducted  or  have 
caused  to  be  abducted  any  minor  or  minors,  or  shall 
have  enticed  them,  or  turned  them  away  from,  or  forci- 
bly removed  them,  or  shall  have  caused  them  to  oe  enticed, 
or  turned  away  from,  or  forcibly  removed  from  the 
places  in  which  they  have  been  placed  by  those  to  whose 
authority  or  direction  they  have  been  submitted  or  con- 
fided, shall  be  liable  to  the  penalty  of  imprisonment. 
See  PENAL  CODE,  21  and  88?  Here  is  21 : — '  The  term 
of  imprisonment  shall  not  be  less  than  five  years.1  28. — 
*  The  sentence  of  imprisonment  shall  be  considered  as 
involving  a  loss  of  civil  rights.'  Now  all  that  is  very 
plain,  is  it  not,  Monsieur  Bonnard  ?" 

"  Perfectly  plain." 

"Now  let  us  go  on:  'ARTICLE  356:  —  In  case  the 
abductor  be  under  the  age  of  21  years  at  the  time  of 
the  offence,  he  shall  only  be  punished  with '  .  .  .  But  we 
certainly  cannot  invoke  this  article  in  your  favor. 
ARTICLE  357 : — In  case  the  abductor  shall  have  married 
the  girl  by  him  abducted,  he  can  only  be  prosecuted  at 
the  instance  of  such  persons  as,  according  to  the  Civil 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.        245 

Code,  may  have  the  right  to  demand  that  the  marriage 
shall  be  declared  null  /  nor  can  he  be  condemned  until 
after  the  nullity  of  the  marriage  shall  have  ~been  pro- 
nounced? I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  a  part  of  your 
plans  to  marry  Mademoiselle  Alexandre!  You  can 
see  that  the  Code  is  good-natured  about  it ;  it  leaves 
you  one  door  of  escape.  But  no — I  ought  not  to  joke 
with  you,  because  really  you  have  put  yourself  in  a 
very  unfortunate  position!  And  how  could  a  man 
like  you  imagine  that  here  in  Paris,  in  the  middle  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  a  young  girl  can  be  abducted 
with  absolute  impunity?  We  are  not  living  in  the 
Middle  Ages  now ;  and  such  things  are  no  longer  per- 
mitted by  law." 

"  You  need  not  imagine,"  I  replied,  "  that  abduction 
was  lawful  under  the  ancient  Code.  You  will  find  in 
Baluze  a  decree  issued  by  King  Childebert  at  Cologne, 
either  in  593  or  594,  on  the  subject :  moreover,  every- 
body knows  that  the  famous  Ordonnance  de  Blois,  of 
May,  1579,  formally  enacted  that  any  persons  convict- 
ed of  having  suborned  any  son  or  daughter  under  the 
age  of  twenty-five  years,  whether  under  promise  of 
marriage  or  otherwise,  without  the  full  knowledge, 
will,  or  consent  of  the  father,  mother,  and  guardians, 
should  be  punished  with  death ;  and  the  ordinance 
adds :  '  Et  pareillement  seront  punis  extraordinaire- 
ment  tous  ceux  qui  auront  participe  audit  rapt,  et  qui 
aurontprete  conseil,  confort,  et  aide  en  aucune  manure 
que  ce  soil?  (And  in  like  manner  shall  be  extraordi- 


246        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

narily  punished  all  persons  whomsoever,  who  shall 
have  participated  in  the  said  abduction,  and  who  shall 
have  given  thereunto  counsel,  succor,  or  aid  in  any 
manner  whatsoever.)  Those  are  the  exact,  or  very 
nearly  the  exact,  terms  of  the  ordinance.  As  for  that 
article  of  the  Code-Napoleon  which  you  have  just  told 
me  of,  and  which  excepts  from  liability  to  prosecution 
the  abductor  who  marries  the  young  girl  abducted  by 
him,  it  reminds  me  that  according  to  the  laws  of  Bre- 
tagne,  forcible  abduction,  followed  by  marriage,  was 
not  punished.  But  this  usage,  which  involved  various 
abuses,  was  suppressed  in  1720 — at  least  I  give  you 
the  date  within  ten  years.  My  memory  is  not  very 
good  now,  and  the  time  is  long  passed  when  I  could 
repeat  by  heart  without  even  stopping  to  take  breath, 
fifteen  hundred  verses  of  Girart  de  Roussillon. 

"  As  far  as  regards  the  Capitulary  of  Charlemagne, 
which  fixes  the  compensation  for  abduction,  I  have  not 
mentioned  it  because  I  am  sure  that  you  must  remem- 
ber it.  So,  my  dear  Monsieur  de  Gabry,  you  see  ab- 
duction was  considered  as  a  decidedly  punishable  of- 
fence under  the  three  dynasties  of  Old  France.  It  is  a 
very  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  Middle  Ages 
represent  a  period  of  social  chaos.  You  must  re- 
member, on  the  contrary — 
Monsieur  de  Gabry  here  interrupted  me : 
"So,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  know  the  Ordonnance  de 
Blois,  you  know  Baluze,  you  know  Childebert,  you 
know  the  Capitularies — and  you  don't  know  anything 
about  the  Code-Napoleon !" 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  'BOXNARD.         247 

I  replied  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  never  had  read 
the  Code ;  and  he  looked  very  much  surprised. 

"  And  now  do  you  understand,"  he  asked,  "  the  ex- 
treme gravity  of  the  action  you  have  committed  ?" 

I  had  not  indeed  been  yet  able  to  understand  it 
fully.  But  little  by  little,  with  the  aid  of  Monsieur 
Paul's  very  sensible  explanations,  I  reached  the  con- 
viction at  last  that  I  would  not  be  judged  in  regard 
to  my  motives,  which  were  innocent,  but  only  accord- 
ing to  my  action,  which  was  punishable.  There- 
upon I  began  to  feel  very  despondent,  and  to  utter 
divers  lamentations. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?"  I  cried  out,  "  what  am  I  to 
do?  Am  I  then  irretrievably  ruined? — and  have  I 
also  ruined  the  poor  child  whom  I  wanted  to  save  ?" 

Monsieur  de  Gabry  silently  filled  his  pipe,  and  light- 
ed it  so  slowly  that  his  kind  broad  face  remained  for 
at  least  three  or  four  minutes  glowing  red  behind  the 
light,  like  a  blacksmith's  in  the  gleam  of  his  forge-fire. 
Then  he  said, 

"You  want  to  know  what  to  do?  Why,  don't  do 
anything,  my  dear  Monsieur  Bonnard !  For  God's 
sake,  and  for  your  own  sake,  don't  do  anything  at  all ! 
Your  situation  is  bad  enough  as  it  is ;  don't  try  to 
meddle  with  it  now,  unless  you  want  to  create  new 
difficulties  for  yourself.  But  you  must  promise  me  to 
sustain  me  in  any  action  that  I  may  take.  I  shall  go 
to  see  Monsieur  Mouche  the  very  first  thing  to-morrow 
morning ;  and  if  he  turns  out  to  be  what  we  think  he 


248        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

is — that  is  to  say,  a  consummate  rascal — I  shall  very 
soon  find  means  of  making  him  harmless,  even  if  the 
devil  himself  should  take  part  with  him.  For  every- 
thing depends  on  him.  As  it  is  too  late  this  evening 
to  take  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  back  to  her  boarding- 
school,  my  wife  will  keep  the  young  lady  here  to- 
night. This  of  course  plainly  constitutes  the  misde- 
meanor of  complicity ;  but  it  saves  the  girl  from  any- 
thing like  an  equivocal  position.  As  for  you,  my  dear 
Monsieur,  you  just  go  back  to  the  Quai  Malaquais  as 
quickly  as  you  can;  and  if  they  come  to  look  for 
Jeanne  there,  it  will  be  very  easy  for  you  to  prove 
she  is  not  in  your  house." 

While  we  were  thus  talking,  Madame  de  Gabry  was 
preparing  to  make  her  young  lodger  comfortable  for 
the  night.  When  she  bade  me  good-by  at  the  door, 
she  was  carrying  a  pair  of  clean  sheets,  scented  with 
lavender,  thrown  over  her  arm. 

"  That,"  I  said,  "  is  a  sweet  honest  smell." 

"Well,  of  course,"  answered  Madame  de  Gabry, 
"  you  must  remember  we  are  peasants." 

"  Ah !"  I  answered  her,  "  Heaven  grant  that  I  also 
may  be  able  one  of  these  days  to  become  a  peasant ! 
Heaven  grant  that  one  of  these  days  I  may  be  able,  as 
you  are  at  Lusance,  to  inhale  the  sweet  fresh  odor  of 
the  country,  and  live  in  some  little  house  all  hidden 
among  trees;  and  if  this  wish  of  mine  be  too  ambi- 
tious on  the  part  of  an  old  man  whose  life  is  nearly 
closed,  then  I  will  only  wish  that  my  winding  sheet 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.         249 

may  be  as  sweetly  scented  with  lavender  as  that  linen 
you  have  on  your  arm." 

It  was  agreed  that  I  should  come  to  breakfast  the 
following  morning.  But  I  was  positively  forbidden  to 
show  myself  at  the  house  before  midday.  Jeanne,  as 
she  kissed  me  good-by,  begged  me  not  to  take  her  back 
to  the  school  any  more.  "We  felt  much  affected  at 
parting,  and  very  anxious. 

I  found  Therese  waiting  for  me  on  the  landing,  in 
such  a  condition  of  worry  about  me  that  it  had  made 
her  furious.  She  talked  of  nothing  less  than  keeping 
me  under  lock  and  key  in  the  future. 

What  a  night  I  passed !  I  never  closed  my  eyes  for 
one  single  instant.  From  time  to  time  I  could  not 
help  laughing  like  a  boy  at  the  success  of  my  prank ; 
and  then  again,  an  inexpressible  feeling  of  horror 
would  come  upon  me  at  the  thought  of  being  dragged 
before  some  magistrate,  and  having  to  take  my  place 
upon  the  prisoner's  bench,  to  answer  for  the  crime 
which  I  had  so  naturally  committed.  I  was  very 
much  afraid ;  and  nevertheless  I  felt  no  remorse  or  re- 
gret whatever.  The  sun,  coming  into  my  room  at 
last,  merrily  lighted  upon  the  foot  of  my  bed,  and 
then  I  made  this  prayer : 

"My  God,  '  Thou  who  didst  make  the  sky  and  the 
dew,'  as  it  is  said  in  Tristan,  judge  me  in  Thine  equity, 
not  indeed  according  unto  my  acts,  but  according  only 
to  my  motives,  which  Thou  knowest  have  been  up- 
right and  pure;  and  I  will  say:  Glory  to  Thee  in 


250        THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

heaven,  and  peace  on  earth  to  men  of  good-will.  I 
give  into  Thy  hands  the  child  I  stole  away.  Do  that 
for  her  which  I  have  not  known  how  to  do :  guard  her 
from  all  her  enemies ; — and  blessed  forever  be  Thy 
name !" 


December  29. 

WHEN  I  arrived  at  Madame  de  Gabry's,  I  found 
Jeanne  completely  transfigured. 

Had  she  also,  like  myself,  at  the  first  light  of  dawn, 
called  upon  Him  "  who  made  the  sky  and  the  dew  "  2 
She  smiled  with  such  a  sweet  calm  smile ! 

Madame  de  Gabry  called  her  away  to  arrange  her 
hair ;  for  the  amiable  lady  had  insisted  upon  combing 
and  plaiting,  with  her  own  hands,  the  hair  of  the  child 
confided  to  her  care.  As  I  had  come  a  little  before 
the  hour  agreed  upon,  I  had  interrupted  this  charm- 
ing toilet.  By  way  of  punishment  I  was  told  to  go 
and  wait  in  the  parlor  all  by  myself.  Monsieur  de 
Gabry  joined  me  there  in  a  little  while.  He  had 
evidently  just  come  in,  for  I  could  see  on  his  forehead 
the  mark  left  by  the  lining  of  his  hat.  His  frank  face 
wore  an  expression  of  joyful  excitement.  I  thought  I 
had  better  not  ask  him  any  questions;  and  we  all 
went  to  breakfast.  When  the  servants  had  finished 
waiting  on  the  table,  Monsieur  Paul,  who  was  keeping 
his  good  story  for  the  dessert,  said  to  us, 

"Well!  I  went  to  LevaUois." 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.         251 

"Did  you  see  Maitre  Mouche?"  excitedly  inquired 
Madame  de  Gabry. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  curiously  watching  the  expression 
of  disappointment  upon  our  faces. 

After  having  amused  himself  with  our  anxiety  for 
a  reasonable  time,  the  good  fellow  added : 

"  Maitre  Mouche  is  no  longer  at  Levallois.  Maitre 
Mouche  has  gone  away  from  France.  The  day  after 
to-morrow  will  make  just  eight  days  since  he  decamped, 
taking  with  him  all  the  money  of  his  clients — a  toler- 
ably large  sum.  I  found  the  office  closed.  A  woman 
who  lived  close  by  told  me  all  about  it  with  an  abun- 
dance of  curses  and  imprecations.  The  notary  did  not 
take  the  7.55  train  all  by  himself ;  he  took  with  him 
the  daughter  of  the  hair-dresser  of  Levallois,  a  young 
person  quite  famous  in  that  part  of  the  country  for 
her  beauty  and  her  accomplishments ; — they  say  she 
could  shave  better  than  her  father.  Well,  anyhow 
Mouche  has  run  away  with  her ;  the  Commissaire  de 
Police  confirmed  the  fact  for  me.  Now,  really,  could 
it  have  been  possible  for  Maitre  Mouche  to  have  left 
the  country  at  a  more  opportune  moment  ?  If  he  had 
only  deferred  his  escapade  one  week  longer,  he  would 
have  been  still  the  representative  of  society,  and  would 
have  had  you  dragged  off  to  jail,  Monsieur  Bonnard, 
like  a  criminal.  At  present  we  have  nothing  what- 
ever to  fear  from  him.  Here  is  to  the  health  of 
Maitre  Mouche!"  he  cried,  pouring  out  a  glass  of 
white  wine. 


252        THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

I  would  like  to  live  a  long  time  if  it  were  only  to 
remember  that  delightful  morning.  We  four  were  all 
assembled  in  the  big  white  dining-room  around  the 
waxed  oak-table.  Monsieur  Paul's  mirth  was  of  the 
hearty  kind, — even  perhaps  a  little  riotous ;  and  the 
good  man  quaffed  deeply.  Madame  de  Gabry  smiled 
at  me,  with  a  smile  so  sweet,  so  perfect,  and  so  noble, 
that  I  thought  such  a  woman  ought  to  keep  smiles 
like  that  simply  as  a  reward  for  good  actions,  and 
thus  make  everybody  who  knew  her  do  all  the  good 
of  which  they  were  capable.  Then,  to  reward  us  for 
our  pains,  Jeanne,  who  had  regained  something  of  her 
former  vivacity,  asked  us  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  one  dozen  questions  to  answer  which  would  have 
required  an  exhaustive  exposition  of  the  nature  of 
man,  the  nature  of  the  universe,  the  science  of  physics 
and  of  metaphysics,  the  Macrocosm  and  the  Micro- 
cosm— not  to  speak  of  the  Ineffable  and  the  Unknow- 
able. Then  she  drew  out  of  her  pocket  her  little  Saint- 
George,  who  had  suffered  most  cruelly  during  our 
flight.  His  legs  and  arms  were  gone ;  but  he  still  had 
his  gold  helmet  with  the  green  dragon  on  it.  Jeanne 
solemnly  pledged  herself  to  make  a  restoration  of  him 
in  honor  of  Madame  de  Gabry. 

Delightful  friends !  I  left  them  at  last  overwhelmed 
with  fatigue  and  joy. 

On  re-entering  my  lodgings  I  had  to  endure  the 
very  sharpest  remonstrances  from  Therese,  who  said 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.        253 

she  had  given  up  trying  to  understand  my  new  way 
of  living.  In  her  opinion  Monsieur  had  really  lost  his 
mind. 

"  Yes,  The'rese,  I  am  a  mad  old  man  and  you  are  a 
mad  old  woman.  That  is  certain!  May  the  good 
God  bless  us  both,  Therese,  and  give  us  new  strength ; 
for  we  now  have  new  duties  to  perform.  But  let  me 
lie  down  upon  the  sofa ;  for  I  really  cannot  keep  my- 
self on  my  feet  any  longer." 


January  15,  186-. 

"  GOOD-MOKNING,  Monsieur,"  said  Jeanne,  letting  her- 
self in ;  while  Therese  remained  grumbling  in  the  cor- 
ridor because  she  had  not  been  able  to  get  to  the  door 
in  time. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  beg  you  will  be  kind  enough  to 
address  me  very  solemnly  by  my  title,  and  to  say  to 
me,  *  Good-morning,  my  guardian.' " 

"Then  it  has  all  been  settled?  Oh,  how  nice!" 
cried  the  child,  clapping  her  hands. 

"It  has  all  been  arranged,  Mademoiselle,  in  the 
Salle-commune  and  before  the  Justice  of  the  Peace; 
and  from  to-day  you  are  under  my  authority.  .  .  . 
What  are  you  laughing  about,  my  ward  ?  I  see  it  in 
your  eyes.  You  have  some  crazy  idea  in  your  head 
this  very  moment — some  more  nonsense,  eh  ?" 

"  Oh,  no !  Monsieur.  ...  I  mean,  my  guardian.  I 
was  looking  at  your  white  hair.  It  curls  out  from 


254         THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

under  the  edge  of  your  hat  like  honeysuckle  on  a  bal- 
cony. It  is  very  handsome,  and  I  like  it  very  much !" 

"  Be  good  enough  to  sit  down,  my  ward,  and,  if  you 
can  possibly  help  it,  stop  saying  ridiculous  things,  be- 
cause I  have  some  very  serious  things  to  say  to  you. 
Listen.  I  suppose  you  are  not  going  to  insist  upon 
being  sent  back  to  the  establishment  of  Mademoiselle 
Prefere?  .  .  .  No.  Well,  then,  what  would  you  say 
if  I  should  take  you  here  to  live  with  me,  and  to  finish 
your  education,  and  keep  you  here  until  .  .  .  what 
shall  I  say  ? — forever,  as  the  song  has  it  ?" 

"Oh,  Monsieur!"  she  cried,  flushing  crimson  with 
pleasure. 

I  continued, 

"  Back  there  we  have  a  nice  little  room,  which  my 
housekeeper  cleaned  up  and  furnished  for  you.  You 
are  going  to  take  the  place  of  the  books  which  used  to 
be  in  it ;  you  will  succeed  them  as  day  succeeds  night. 
Go  with  Therese  and  look  at  it,  and  see  if  you  think  you 
will  be  able  to  live  in  it.  Madame  de  Gabry  and  I  have 
made  up  our  minds  that  you  can  sleep  there  to-night." 

She  had  already  started  to  run ;  I  called  her  back 
for  a  moment. 

"  Jeanne,  listen  to  me  a  moment  longer !  You  have 
always  until  now  made  yourself  a  favorite  with  my 
housekeeper,  who,  like  all  very  old  people,  is  apt  to 
be  cross  at  times.  Be  gentle  and  forbearing.  Make 
every  allowance  for  her.  I  have  thought  it  my  duty 
to  make  every  allowance  for  her  myself,  and  to  put  up 


THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVE8TRE  BONNARD.        255 

with  all  her  fits  of  impatience.  Now,  let  me  tell  you, 
Jeanne : — Respect  her !  And  when  I  say  that,  I  do 
not  forget  that  she  is  my  servant  and  yours ;  neither 
will  she  ever  allow  herself  to  forget  it  for  a  moment. 
But  what  I  want  you  to  respect  in  her  is  her  great  age 
and  her  great  heart.  She  is  an  humble  woman  who 
has  lived  a  very,  very  long  time  in  the  habit  of  doing 
good ;  and  she  has  become  hardened  and  stiffened  in 
that  habit.  Bear  patiently  with  the  harsh  ways  of 
that  upright  soul.  If  you  know  how  to  command,  she 
will  know  how  to  obey.  Go  now,  my  child ;  arrange 
your  room  in  whatever  way  may  seem  to  you  best 
suited  for  your  studies  and  for  your  repose." 

Having  started  Jeanne,  with  this  viaticum,  upon  her 
domestic  career,  I  began  to  read  a  Review,  which,  al- 
though conducted  by  very  young  men,  is  excellent. 
The  tone  of  it  is  somewhat  unpolished,  but  the  spirit 
zealous.  The  article  I  read  was  certainly  far  superior, 
in  point  of  precision  and  positivism,  to  anything  of  the 
sort  ever  written  when  I  was  a  young  man.  The  au- 
thor of  the  article,  Monsieur  Paul  Meyer,  points  out 
every  error  with  a  remarkably  lucid  power  of  incisive 
criticism. 

We  used  not  in  my  time  to  criticise  with  such  strict 
justice.  Our  indulgence  was  vast.  It  went  even  so 
far  as  to  confound  the  scholar  and  the  ignoramus  in 
the  same  burst  of  praise.  And  nevertheless  one  must 
learn  how  to  find  fault ;  and  it  is  even  an  imperative 
duty  to  blame  when  the  blame  is  deserved. 


256        THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

I  remember  little  Raymond  (that  was  the  name  we 
gave  him);  he  did  not  know  anything,  and  his  mind 
was  not  a  mind  capable  of  absorbing  any  solid  learn- 
ing ;  but  he  was  very  fond  of  his  mother.  We  took 
very  good  care  never  to  utter  a  hint  of  the  ignorance 
of  so  perfect  a  son ;  and,  thanks  to  our  forbearance, 
little  Raymond  made  his  way  to  the  highest  positions. 
He  had  lost  his  mother  then ;  but  honors  of  all  kinds 
were  showered  upon  him.  He  became  omnipotent— 
to  the  grievous  injury  of  his  colleagues  and  of  science. 
.  .  .  But  here  comes  my  young  friend  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg. 

"  Good-evening,  Gelis.  You  look  very  happy  to-day. 
What  good  fortune  has  come  to  you,  my  dear  lad  ?" 

His  good  fortune  is  that  he  has  been  able  to  sustain 
his  thesis  very  creditably,  and  that  he  has  taken  a 
high  rank  in  his  class.  He  tells  me  this  with  the  ad- 
ditional information  that  my  own  works,  which  were 
incidentally  referred  to  in  the  course  of  the  examina- 
tion, had  been  spoken  of  by  the  college  professors  in 
terms  of  the  most  unqualified  praise. 

"  That  is  very  nice,"  I  replied ;  "  and  it  makes  me 
very  happy,  Gelis,  to  find  my  old  reputation  thus  as- 
sociated with  your  own  youthful  honors.  I  was  very 
much  interested,  you  know,  in  that  thesis  of  yours; 
but  some  domestic  arrangements  have  been  keeping 
me  so  busy  lately  that  I  quite  forgot  this  was  the  day 
on  which  you  were  to  sustain  it." 

Mademoiselle  Jeanne  made  her  appearance  very  op- 


THE  CRIME  OF  87LVE8TRE  BONNARD.         257 

portunely,  as  if  in  order  to  suggest  to  him  something 
about  the  nature  of  those  very  domestic  arrangements. 
The  giddy  girl  burst  into  the  City  of  Books  like  a 
fresh  breeze,  crying  out  at  the  top  of  her  voice  that 
her  room  was  a  perfect  little  wonder.  Then  she  be- 
came very  red  indeed  on  seeing  Monsieur  Gelis  there. 
But  none  of  us  can  escape  our  destiny. 

Monsieur  Gelis  asked  her  how  she  was  with  the  tone 
of  a  young  fellow  who  presumes  upon  a  previous  ac- 
quaintance, and  who  proposes  to  put  himself  forward 
as  an  old  friend.  Oh,  never  fear! — she  had  not  for- 
gotten him  at  all :  that  was  very  evident  from  the  fact 
that  then  and  there,  right  under  my  nose,  they  re- 
sumed their  last  year's  conversation  on  the  subject  of 
the  "  Venetian-blond  "  !  They  continued  the  discussion 
after  quite  an  animated  fashion.  I  began  to  ask  my- 
self what  right  I  had  to  be  in  the  room  at  all.  The 
only  thing  I  could  do  in  order  to  make  myself  heard 
was  to  cough.  As  for  getting  in  a  word,  they  never 
even  gave  me  a  chance.  Gelis  discoursed  enthusiasti- 
cally, not  only  about  the  Venetian  colorists,  but  also 
upon  all  other  matters  relating  to  nature  or  to  man- 
kind. And  Jeanne  kept  answering  him,  "  Yes,  Mon- 
sieur, you  are  right."  ..."  That  is  just  what  I  sup- 
posed, Monsieur."  .  .  .  "Monsieur,  you  express  so 
beautifully  just  what  I  feel."  ...  "I  am  going  to 
think  a  great  deal  about  what  you  have  just  told  me, 
Monsieur." 

When  /  speak,  Mademoiselle  never  answers  me  in 
IT 


258         THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

that  tone.  It  is  only  with  the  very  tip  of  her  tongue 
that  she  will  even  taste  any  intellectual  food  which  I 
set  before  her.  Usually  she  will  not  touch  it  at  all. 
But  Monsieur  Gelis  seems  to  be  in  her  opinion  the  su- 
preme authority  upon  all  subjects.  It  was  always, 
"  Oh,  yes !" — "  Oh,  of  course !" — to  all  his  empty  chat- 
ter. And,  then,  the  eyes  of  Jeanne!  I  had  never 
seen  them  look  so  large  before ;  I  had  never  before 
observed  in  them  such  fixity  of  expression ;  but  her 
gaze  otherwise  remained  what  it  always  is — artless, 
frank,  and  brave.  Gelis  evidently  pleased  her;  she 
likes  Gelis,  and  her  eyes  betrayed  the  fact.  They 
would  have  published  it  to  the  entire  universe !  All 
very  fine,  Master  Bonnard ! — you  have  been  so  deeply 
interested  in  observing  your  ward,  that  you  have  been 
forgetting  you  are  her  guardian !  You  began  only 
this  morning  to  exercise  that  function ;  and  you  can 
already  see  that  it  involves  some  very  delicate  and  dif- 
ficult duties.  Bonnard,  you  must  really  try  to  devise 
some  means  of  keeping  that  young  man  away  from 
her ;  you  really  ought.  ...  Eh !  how  am  I  to  know 
what  I  am  to  do  ?  ... 

I  have  picked  up  a  book  at  random  from  the  near- 
est shelf ;  I  open  it,  and  I  enter  respectfully  into  the 
middle  of  a  drama  of  Sophocles.  The  older  I  grow, 
the  more  I  learn  to  love  the  two  civilizations  of  the 
antique  world ;  and  now  I  always  keep  the  poets  of 
Italy  and  of  Greece  on  a  shelf  within  easy  reach  of 
my  arm  in  the  City  of  Books. 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.         259 

Monsieur  and  Mademoiselle  finally  condescend  to 
take  some  notice  of  me,  now  that  I  seem  too  busy  to 
take  any  notice  of  them.  I  really  think  that  Mad- 
emoiselle Jeanne  has  even  asked  me  what  I  am  read- 
ing. No,  indeed,  I  will  not  tell  her  what  it  is.  What 
I  am  reading,  between  ourselves,  is  the  chant  of  that 
suave  and  luminous  Chorus  which  rolls  out  its  mag- 
nificent melopoeia  through  a  scene  of  passionate  vio- 
lence— the  Chorus  of  the  Old  Men  of  Thebes — 'E/owc 
avt(car£.  .  .  .  "Invincible  Love,  0  Thou  who  descend- 
est  upon  rich  houses, — Thou  who  dost  rest  upon  the  del- 
icate cheek  of  the  maiden, — Thou  who  dost  traverse  all 
seas, — surely  none  among  the  Immortals  can  escape  Thee, 
nor  indeed  any  among  men  wJw  live  but  for  a  little 
space  ;  and  he  who  is  possessed  ly  Tliee,  there  is  a  mad- 
ness upon  him"  And  when  I  had  re-read  that  deli- 
cious chant,  the  face  of  Antigone  appeared  before  me 
in  all  its  passionless  purity.  "What  images !  Gods  and 
goddesses  who  hover  in  the  highest  height  of  heaven ! 
The  blind  old  man,  the  long-wandering  beggar-king, 
led  by  Antigone,  has  now  been  buried  with  holy  rites ; 
and  his  daughter,  fair  as  the  fairest  dream  ever  con- 
ceived by  human  soul,  resists  the  will  of  the  tyrant 
and  gives  pious  sepulture  to  her  brother.  She  loves 
the  son  of  the  tyrant,  and  that  son  loves  her  also. 
And  as  she  goes  on  her  way  to  execution,  the  victim 
of  her  own  sweet  piety,  the  old  men  sing,  "  Invincible 
Love,  0  Thou  who  dost  descend  upon  rich  houses, — Thou 
who  dost  rest  upon  tJie  delicate  cheek  of  the  maiden"  .  .  . 


260         THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"  Mademoiselle  Jeanne,  are  you  really  very  anxious 
to  know  what  I  am  reading  ?  I  am  reading,  Mademoi- 
selle— I  am  reading  that  Antigone,  having  buried  the 
blind  old  man,  wove  a  fair  tapestry  embroidered  with 
images  in  the  likeness  of  laughing  faces." 

"  Ah !"  said  Gelis,  as  he  burst  out  laughing,  "  that 
is  not  in  the  text." 

"  It  is  *a  scolium,"  I  said. 

"  Inedited,"  he  added,  getting  up. 

I  am  not  an  egotist.  But  I  am  prudent.  I  have  to 
bring  up  this  child ;  she  is  much  too  young  to  be  mar- 
ried now.  No !  I  am  not  an  egotist,  but  I  must  cer- 
tainly keep  her  with  me  for  a  few  years  more — keep 
her  alone  with  me.  She  can  surely  wait  until  I  am 
dead !  Fear  not,  Antigone,  old  CEdipus  will  find  holy 
burial  soon  enough. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Antigone  is  helping  our  house- 
keeper to  scrape  the  carrots.  She  says  she  likes  to 
do  it — that  it  is  in  her  line,  being  related  to  the  art  of 
sculpture. 

May. 

WHO  would  recognize  the  City  of  Books  now  ?  There 
are  flowers  everywhere — even  upon  all  the  articles  of 
furniture.  Jeanne  was  right :  those  roses  do  look  very 
nice  in  that  blue  china  vase.  She  goes  to  market  every 
day  with  Therese,  under  the  pretext  of  helping  the  old 
servant  to  make  her  purchases,  but  she  never  brings 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         261 

anything  back  with  her  except  flowers.  Flowers  are 
really  very  charming  creatures.  And  one  of  these 
days  I  must  certainly  carry  out  my  plan,  and  devote 
myself  to  the  study  of  them,  in  their  own  natural  do- 
main, in  the  country — with  all  the  science  and  earnest- 
ness which  I  possess. 

For  what  have  I  to  do  here  ?  Why  should  I  burn 
my  eyes  out  over  these  old  parchments  which  cannot 
now  tell  me  anything  worth  knowing  ?  I  used  to  study 
them,  those  old  texts,  with  the  most  ardent  enjoy- 
ment. What  was  it  which  I  was  then  so  anxious  to 
find  in  them  ?  The  date  of  a  pious  foundation — the 
name  of  some  monkish  imagier  or  copyist — the  price 
of  a  loaf,  of  an  ox,  or  of  a  field — some  judicial  or  ad- 
ministrative enactment — all  that,  and  yet  something 
more,  a  Something  vaguely  mysterious  and  sublime 
which  excited  my  enthusiasm.  But  for  sixty  years 
I  have  been  searching  in  vain  for  that  Something. 
Better  men  than  I — the  masters,  the  truly  great,  the 
Fauriels,  the  Thierrys,  who  found  so  many  things — 
died  at  their  task  without  having  been  able,  any  more 
than  I  have  been,  to  find  that  Something  which,  being 
incorporeal,  has  no  name,  and  without  which,  neverthe- 
less, no  great  mental  work  would  ever  be  undertaken 
in  this  world.  And  now  that  I  am  only  looking  for 
what  I  should  certainly  be  able  to  find,  I  cannot  find 
anything  at  all ;  and  it  is  probable  that  I  will  never  be 
able  to  finish  the  history  of  the  Abbots  of  Saint-Ger 
main-des-Pres. 


262         THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

"  Guardian,  just  guess  what  I  have  in  my  hand- 
kerchief." 

"Judging  from  appearances,  Jeanne,  I  should  say 
flowers." 

"  Oh,  no — not  flowers.     Look !" 

I  look,  and  I  see  a  little  gray  head  poking  itself 
out  of  the  handkerchief.  It  is  the  head  of  a  little 
gray  cat.  The  handkerchief  opens ;  the  animal  leaps 
down  upon  the  carpet,  shakes  itself,  pricks  up  first  one 
ear  and  then  the  other,  and  begins  to  examine  with  due 
caution  the  locality  and  the  inhabitants  thereof. 

Therese,  out  of  breath,  with  her  basket  on  her  arm, 
suddenly  makes  her  appearance  in  time  to  take  an  ob- 
jective part  in  this  examination,  which  does  not  appear 
to  result  altogether  in  her  favor ;  for  the  young  cat 
moves  slowly  away  from  her,  without,  however,  ven- 
turing near  my  legs,  or  approaching  Jeanne,  who  dis- 
plays extraordinary  volubility  in  the  use  of  caressing 
appellations.  Therese,  whose  chief  fault  is  her  inability 
to  hide  her  feelings,  thereupon  vehemently  reproaches 
Mademoiselle  for  bringing  home  a  cat  that  she  did 
not  know  anything  about.  Jeanne,  in  order  to  justify 
herself,  tells  the  whole  story.  While  she  was  passing 
with  Th6rese  before  a  drug-store,  she  saw  the  clerk 
kick  a  little  cat  into  the  street.  The  cat,  astonished 
and  frightened,  seemed  to  be  asking  itself  whether  to 
remain  in  the  street  where  it  was  being  terrified  and 
knocked  about  by  the  people  passing  by,  or  whether 
to  go  back  into  the  drug-store  even  at  the  risk  of  being 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         263 

kicked  out  a  second  time.  Jeanne  thought  it  was  in 
a  very  critical  position,  and  understood  its  hesitation. 
It  looked  so  stupid;  and  she  knew  it  looked  stupid 
only  because  it  could  not  decide  what  to  do.  So  she 
took  it  up  in  her  arms.  And  as  it  had  not  been  able 
to  obtain  any  rest  either  in-doors  or  out-of-doors,  it 
allowed  her  to  hold  it.  Then  she  stroked  and  petted 
it  to  keep  it  from  being  afraid,  and  boldly  went  to  the 
drug-clerk  and  said, 

"  If  you  don't  like  that  animal,  you  mustn't  beat  it; 
you  must  give  it  to  me." 

"  Take  it,"  said  the  drug-clerk. 

..."  Now  there !"  adds  Jeanne,  by  way  of  conclu- 
sion ;  and  then  she  changes  her  voice  again  to  a  flute- 
tone  in  order  to  say  all  kinds  of  sweet  things  to  that  cat. 

"He  is  horribly  thin,"  I  observe,  looking  at  the 
wretched  animal ; — "  moreover,  he  is  horribly  ugly." 
Jeanne  thinks  he  is  not  ugly  at  all,  but  she  acknowl- 
edges that  he  looks  even  more  stupid  than  he  looked 
at  first :  this  time  she  thinks  it  not  indecision,  but  sur- 
prise, which  gives  that  unfortunate  aspect  to  his  coun- 
tenance. She  asks  us  to  imagine  ourselves  in  his  place ; 
— then  we  are  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  he  cannot 
possibly  understand  what  has  happened  to  him.  And 
then  we  all  burst  out  laughing  in  the  face  of  the  poor 
little  beast,  which  maintains  the  most  comical  look  of 
gravity.  Jeanne  wants  to  take  him  up ;  but  he  hides 
himself  under  the  table,  and  cannot  even  be  tempted 
to  come  out  by  the  lure  of  a  saucer  of  milk. 


264        THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

We  all  turn  our  backs  and  promise  not  to  look ;  when 
we  inspect  the  saucer  again,  we  find  it  empty. 

"  Jeanne,"  I  observe,  "  your  protege  has  a  decidedly 
tristful  aspect  of  countenance ;  he  is  of  a  sly  and  sus- 
picious disposition ;  I  trust  he  is  not  going  to  commit 
in  the  City  of  Books  any  such  misdemeanors  as  might 
render  it  necessary  for  us  to  send  him  back  to  his  drug- 
store. In  the  meantime  we  must  give  him  a  name. 
Suppose  we  call  him  '  Don  Gris  de  Gouttiere ' ;  but  per- 
haps that  is  too  long.  'Pill,'  'Drug,'  or  'Castor- 
oil'  would  be  short  enough,  and  would  further  serve 
to  recall  his  early  condition  in  life.  "What  do  you 
think  about  it  ?" 

"'Pill'  would  not  sound  bad,"  answers  Jeanne, 
"but  it  would  be  very  unkind  to  give  him  a  name 
which  would  be  always  reminding  him  of  the  misery 
from  which  we  saved  him.  It  would  be  making  him 
pay  too  dearly  for  our  hospitality.  Let  us  be  more 
generous,  and  give  him  a  pretty  name,  in  hopes  that 
he  is  going  to  deserve  it.  See  how  he  looks  at  us! 
He  knows  that  we  are  talking  about  him.  And  now 
that  he  is  no  longer  unhappy,  he  is  beginning  to  look 
a  great  deal  less  stupid.  I  am  not  joking !  Unhappi- 
ness  does  make  people  look  stupid, — I  am  perfectly 
sure  it  does." 

"  Well,  Jeanne,  if  you  like,  we  will  call  your  protege 
Hannibal.  The  appropriateness  of  that  name  does  not 
seem  to  strike  you  at  once.  But  the  Angora  cat  who 
preceded  him  here  as  an  inmate  of  the  City  of  Books, 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        265 

and  to  whom  I  was  in  the  habit  of  telling  all  my 
secrets — for  he  was  a  very  wise  and  discreet  person — 
used  to  be  called  Hamilcar.  It  is  natural  that  this 
name  should  beget  the  other,  and  that  Hannibal 
should  succeed  Hamilcar. 

"We  all  agreed  upon  this  point. 

"  Hannibal !"  cried  Jeanne,  "  come  here !" 

Hannibal,  greatly  frightened  by  the  strange  sonority 
of  his  own  name,  ran  to  hide  himself  under  a  book-case 
in  an  orifice  so  small  that  a  rat  could  not  have  squeezed 
himself  into  it. 

A  nice  way  of  doing  credit  to  so  great  a  name ! 

I  was  in  a  good  humor  for  working  that  day,  and  I 
had  just  dipped  the  nib  of  my  pen  into  the  ink-bottle 
when  I  heard  some  one  ring.  Should  any  one  ever 
read  these  pages  written  by  an  unimaginative  old 
man,  he  will  be  sure  to  laugh  at  the  way  that  bell 
keeps  ringing  through  my  narrative,  without  ever  an- 
nouncing the  arrival  of  a  new  personage  or  introduc- 
ing any  unexpected  incident.  On  the  stage  things  are 
managed  on  the  reverse  principle.  Monsieur  Scribe 
never  has  the  curtain  raised  without  good  reason,  and 
for  the  greater  enjoyment  of  ladies  and  young  misses. 
That  is  art !  I  would  rather  hang  myself  than  write 
a  play, — not  that  I  despise  life,  but  because  I  should 
never  be  able  to  invent  anything  amusing.  Invent ! 
In  order  to  do  that  one  must  have  received  the  gift  of 
inspiration.  It  would  be  a  very  unfortunate  thing  for 


266         THE  CRIME  OF  S7LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

me  to  possess  such  a  gift.  Suppose  I  were  to  invent 
some  monkling  in  my  history  of  the  Abbey  of  Saint- 
Germain-des-Pres !  "What  would  our  young  erudites 
say  ?  What  a  scandal  for  the  School !  As  for  the 
Institute,  it  would  say  nothing  and  probably  not  even 
think  about  the  matter  either.  Even  if  my  colleagues 
still  write  a  little  sometimes,  they  never  read.  They 
are  of  the  opinion  of  Parn}r,  who  said, 

"  Une  paisible  indifference 
Est  la  plus  sage  des  vertus."  * 

To  be  the  least  wise  in  order  to  become  the  most 
wise — this  is  precisely  what  those  Buddhists  are  aim- 
ing at  without  knowing  it.  If  there  is  any  wiser  wis- 
dom than  that  I  will  go  to  Rome  to  report  upon  it.  ... 
And  all  this  because  Monsieur  Gelis  happened  to  ring 
the  bell! 

This  young  man  has  latterly  changed  his  manner 
completely  with  Jeanne.  He  is  now  quite  as  serious 
as  he  used  to  be  frivolous,  and  quite  as  silent  as  he 
used  to  be  chatty.  And  Jeanne  follows  his  example. 
We  have  reached  the  phase  of  passionate  love  under 
constraint.  For,  old  as  I  am,  I  cannot  be  deceived 
about  it :  these  two  children  are  violently  and  sincerely 
in  love  with  each  other.  Jeanne  now  avoids  him — 
she  hides  herself  in  her  room  when  he  comes  into  the 
library — but  how  well  she  knows  how  to  reach  him 
when  she  is  alone !  alone  at  her  piano !  Every  even- 

*  "  The  most  wise  of  the  virtues  is  a  calm  indifference." 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         267 

ing  she  talks  to  him  through  the  music  she  plays  with 
a  rich  thrill  of  passional  feeling  which  is  the  new 
utterance  of  her  new  soul. 

Well,  why  should  I  not  confess  it  ?  Why  should  I 
not  avow  my  weakness?  Surely  my  egotism  would 
not  become  any  less  blameworthy  by  keeping  it  hidden 
from  myself  ?  So  I  will  write  it.  Yes !  I  was  hoping 
for  something  else ; — yes !  I  thought  I  was  going  to 
keep  her  all  to  myself,  as  my  own  child,  as  my  own 
daughter — not  always,  of  course,  not  even  perhaps  for 
very  long,  but  just  for  a  few  years  more.  I  am  so  old ! 
Could  she  not  wait  ?  And,  who  knows  ?  With  the 
help  of  the  gout,  I  would  not  have  imposed  upon  her 
patience  too  much.  That  was  my  wish ;  that  was  my 
hope.  I  had  made  my  plans — I  had  not  reckoned  upon 
the  coming  of  this  wild  young  man.  But  the  mistake 
is  none  the  less  cruel  because  my  reckoning  happened 
to  be  wrong.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are 
condemning  yourself  very  rashly,  friend  Sylvestre  Bon- 
nard :  if  you  did  want  to  keep  this  young  girl  a  few 
years  longer,  it  was  quite  as  much  in  her  own  interest 
as  in  yours.  She  has  a  great  deal  to  learn  yet,  and  you 
are  not  a  master  to  be  despised.  When  that  miserable 
notary  Mouche — who  subsequently  committed  his  ras- 
calities at  so  opportune  a  moment — paid  you  the  honor 
of  a  visit,  you  explained  to  him  your  ideas  of  education 
with  all  the  fervor  of  high  enthusiasm.  Then  you  at- 
tempted to  put  that  system  of  yours  into  practice ; — 
Jeanne  is  certainly  an  ungrateful  girl,  and  Gelis  a 
much  too  seductive  young  man ! 


268        THE  CRIME  OF  87LVESTRE  BONNARD. 

But  still, — unless  I  put  him  out  of  the  house,  which 
would  be  a  detestably  ill-mannered  and  ill-natured 
thing  to  do, — I  must  continue  to  receive  him.  He  has 
been  waiting  ever  so  long  in  my  little  parlor,  in  front 
of  those  Sevres  vases  with  which  King  Louis  Phi- 
lippe so  graciously  presented  me.  The  Moissonneurs 
and  the  Pecheurs  of  Leopold  Eobert  are  painted  upon 
those  porcelain  vases,  which  Gelis  nevertheless  dares 
to  call  frightfully  ugly,  with  the  warm  approval  of 
Jeanne,  whom  he  has  absolutely  bewitched. 

"  My  dear  lad,  excuse  me  for  having  kept  you  wait- 
ing so  long.  I  had  a  little  bit  of  work  to  finish." 

I  am  telling  the  truth.  Meditation  is  work,  but  of 
course  Gelis  does  not  know  what  I  mean ;  he  thinks 
I  am  referring  to  something  archaeological,  and,  his 
question  in  regard  to  the  health  of  Mademoiselle 
Jeanne  having  been  answered  by  a  "  Yery  well  in- 
deed," uttered  in  that  extremely  dry  tone  which  re- 
veals my  moral  authority  as  guardian,  we  begin  to 
converse  about  historical  subjects.  "We  first  enter 
upon  generalities.  Generalities  are  sometimes  ex- 
tremely serviceable.  I  try  to  inculcate  into  Monsieur 
Gelis  some  respect  for  that  generation  of  historians 
to  which  I  belong.  I  say  to  him, 

"  History,  which  was  formerly  an  art,  and  which 
afforded  place  for  the  fullest  exercise  of  the  imagina- 
tion, has  in  our  time  become  a  science,  the  study  of 
which  demands  absolute  exactness  of  knowledge." 

Gelis  asks  leave  to  differ  from  me  on  this  subject. 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        269 

He  tells  me  he  does  not  believe  that  history  is  a  sci- 
ence, or  that  it  could  possibly  ever  become  a  science. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  he  says  to  me,  "  what  is  his- 
tory? The  written  representation  of  past  events. 
But  what  is  an  event  ?  Is  it  merely  a  commonplace 
fact  ?  Is  it  any  fact  ?  No !  You  say  yourself  it  is  a 
noteworthy  fact.  Now,  how  is  the  historian  to  tell 
whether  a  fact  is  noteworthy  or  not  2  He  judges  it 
arbitrarily,  according  to  his  tastes  and  his  caprices 
and  his  ideas — in  short,  like  an  artist  ?  For  facts  can- 
not by  reason  of  their  own  intrinsic  character  be 
divided  into  historical  facts  and  non-historical  facts. 
But  any  fact  is  something  exceedingly  complex. 
Will  the  historian  represent  facts  in  all  their  com- 
plexity ?  No,  that  is  impossible.  Then  he  will  rep- 
resent them  stripped  of  the  greater  part  of  the  pe- 
culiarities which  constituted  them,  and  consequently 
lopped,  mutilated,  different  from  what  they  really 
were.  As  for  the  inter-relation  of  facts,  needless  to 
speak  of  it }  If  a  so-called  historical  fact  be  brought 
into  notice — as  is  very  possible — by  one  or  more  facts 
which  are  not  historical  at  all,  and  are  for  that  very 
reason  unknown,  how  is  the  historian  going  to  estab- 
lish the  relation  of  these  facts  one  to  another  ?  And 
in  saying  this,  Monsieur  Bonnard,  I  am  supposing  that 
the  historian  has  positive  evidence  before  him,  where- 
as in  reality  he  feels  confidence  only  in  such  or  such 
a  witness  for  sympathetic  reasons.  History  is  not  a 
science ;  it  is  an  art,  and  one  can  succeed  in  that  art 


270         THE  CRIME  OF  87LVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

only  through  the  exercise  of  his  faculty  of  imagina- 
tion." 

Monsieur  Gelis  reminds  me  very  much  at  this  mo- 
ment of  a  certain  young  fool  whom  I  heard  talking 
wildly  one  day  in  the  garden  of  the  Luxembourg, 
under  the  statue  of  Marguerite  of  Navarre.  But  at 
another  turn  of  the  conversation  we  find  ourselves 
face  to  face  with  "Walter  Scott,  whose  work  my  dis- 
dainful young  friend  pleases  to  term  "  rococo,  trou- 
badourish,  and  only  fit  to  inspire  somebody  engaged 
in  making  designs  for  cheap  bronze  clocks."  Those 
are  his  very  words ! 

"  Why !"  I  exclaim,  zealous  to  defend  the  magnifi- 
cent creator  of  "  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  and  "  The 
Fair  Maid  of  Perth,"  "  the  whole  past  lives  in  those  ad- 
mirable novels  of  his ; — that  is  history,  that  is  epopee !" 

"  It  is  frippery,"  Gelis  answers  me. 

And, — will  you  believe  it  ? — this  crazy  boy  actually 
tells  me  that  no  matter  how  learned  one  may  be,  one 
cannot  possibly  know  just  how  men  used  to  live  five 
or  ten  centuries  ago,  because  it  is  only  with  the  very 
greatest  difficulty  that  one  can  picture  them  to  one's 
self  even  as  they  were  only  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago. 
In  his  opinion,  the  historical  poem,  the  historical  novel, 
the  historical  painting,  are  all,  according  to  their  kind, 
abominably  false  as  branches  of  art. 

"  In  all  the  arts,"  he  adds,  "  the  artist  can  only  re- 
flect his  own  soul.  His  work,  no  matter  how  it  may 
be  dressed  up,  is  of  necessity  contemporary  with  him- 


THE  CHIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNAED.         271 

self,  being  the  reflection  of  his  own  niind.  What  do 
we  admire  in  the  '  Divine  Comedy '  unless  it  be  the 
great  soul  of  Dante?  And  the  marbles  of  Michael 
Angelo,  what  do  they  represent  to  us  that  is  at  all 
extraordinary  unless  it  be  Michael  Angelo  himself? 
The  artist  either  communicates  his  own  life  to  his  cre- 
ations, or  else  merely  whittles  out  puppets  and  dresses 
up  dolls." 

What  a  torrent  of  paradoxes  and  irreverences !  But 
boldness  in  a  young  man  is  not  displeasing  to  me. 
Gelis  gets  up  from  his  chair  and  sits  down  again.  I 
know  perfectly  well  what  is  worrying  him,  and  who 
he  is  waiting  for.  And  now  he  begins  to  talk  to  me 
about  his  being  able  to  make  fifteen  hundred  francs  a 
year,  to  which  he  can  add  the  revenue  he  derives  from 
a  little  property  that  he  has  inherited — two  thousand 
francs  a  year  or  more.  And  I  am  not  in  the  least  de- 
ceived as  to  the  purpose  of  these  confidences  on  his 
part.  I  know  perfectly  well  that  he  is  only  making 
his  little  financial  statements  in  order  to  persuade  me 
that  he  is  comfortably  circumstanced,  steady,  fond  of 
home,  comparatively  independent — or,  to  put  the  mat- 
ter in  the  fewest  words  possible,  able  to  marry.  Quod 
erat  demonstrandum, — as  the  geometricians  say. 

He  has  got  up  and  sat  down  just  twenty  times. 
He  now  rises  for  the  twenty-first  time ;  and,  as  he  has 
not  been  able  to  see  Jeanne,  he  goes  away  feeling  as 
unhappy  as  possible. 

The  moment  he  has  gone,  Jeanne  comes  into  tho 


272         THE  CRIME  OF  8YLVE8TEE  BONNARD. 

City  of  Books,  under  the  pretext  of  looking  for  Han- 
nibal. She  is  also  quite  unhappy ;  and  her  voice  be- 
comes singularly  plaintive  as  she  calls  her  pet  to  give 
him  some  milk.  Look  at  that  sad  little  face,  Bonnard ! 
Tyrant,  gaze  upon  thy  work  !  Thou  hast  been  able 
to  keep  them  from  seeing  each  other ;  but  they  have 
now  both  of  them  the  same  expression  of  countenance, 
and  thou  mayest  discern  from  that  similarity  of  ex- 
pression that  in  spite  of  thee  they  are  united  in 
thought.  Cassandra,  be  happy!  Bartholo,  rejoice! 
This  is  what  it  means  to  be  a  guardian !  Just  see  her 
kneeling  down  there  on  the  carpet  with  Hannibal's 
head  between  her  hands ! 

Yes,  caress  the  stupid  animal ! — pity  him  ! — moan 
over  him ! — we  know  very  well,  you  little  rogue,  the 
real  cause  of  all  those  sighs  and  plaints !  Neverthe- 
less, it  makes  a  very  pretty  picture.  I  look  at  it  for  a 
long  time ;  then,  throwing  a  glance  around  my  library, 
I  exclaim, 

"  Jeanne,  I  am  tired  of  all  those  books ;  we  must 
sell  them." 

September  W. 

IT  is  done ! — they  are  betrothed.  Gelis,  who  is  an 
orphan,  as  Jeanne  is,  did  not  make  his  proposal  to 
me  in  person.  He  got  one  of  his  professors,  an  old 
colleague  of  mine,  highly  esteemed  for  his  learning 
and  character,  to  come  to  me  'on  his  behalf.  But 
what  a  love  messenger !  Great  heavens !  A  bear, — 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD.        273 

not  a  bear  of  the  Pyrenees,  but  a  literary  bear, — and 
this  latter  variety  of  bear  is  much  more  ferocious  than 
the  former. 

"  Eight  or  wrong  (in  my  opinion  wrong !)  Gelis  says 
that  he  does  not  want  any  dowry;  he  takes  your 
ward  with  nothing  but  her  chemise.  Say  yes,  and 
the  thing  is  settled !  Make  haste  about  it  1  I  want 
to  show  you  two  or  three  very  curious  old  tokens  from 
Lorraine  which  I  am  sure  you  never  saw  before." 

That  is  literally  what  he  said  to  me.  I  answered 
him  that  I  would  consult  Jeanne,  and  I  found  no 
small  pleasure  in  telling  him  that  my  ward  had  a 
dowry. 

Her  dowry — there  it  is  in  front  of  me !  It  is  my 
library.  Henri  and  Jeanne  have  not  even  the  faint- 
est suspicion  about  it ;  and  the  fact  is  I  am  commonly 
believed  to  be  much  richer  than  I  am.  I  have  the 
face  of  an  old  miser.  It  is  certainly  a  lying  face ; 
but  its  untruthfulness  has  often  won  for  me  a  great 
deal  of  consideration.  There  is  nobody  so  much  re- 
spected in  this  world  as  a  stingy  rich  man. 

I  have  consulted  Jeanne, — but  what  was  the  need  of 
listening  for  her  answer  ?  It  is  done !  They  are  be- 
trothed. 

It  would  ill  become  my  character  as  well  as  my  face 
to  watch  these  young  people  any  more  for  the  mere 
purpose  of  noting  down  their  words  and  gestures. 
Noli  me  tangere : — that  is  the  maxim  for  all  charming 
love  affairs.  I  know  my  duty.  It  is  to  respect  all 
13 


274        THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVE8TRE  BONNARD. 

the  little  secrets  of  that  innocent  soul  intrusted  to  me. 
Let  these  children  love  each  other  all  they  can! 
Never  a  word  of  their  fervent  outpouring  of  mutual 
confidences,  never  a  hint  of  their  artless  self -betrayals, 
will  be  set  down  in  this  diary  by  the  old  guardian 
whose  authority  was  so  gentle  and  so  brief. 

At  all  events,  I  am  not  going  to  remain  with  my 
arms  folded ;  and  if  they  have  their  business  to  attend 
to,  I  have  mine  also.  I  am  preparing  a  catalogue  of 
my  books,  with  a  view  to  having  them  all  sold  at  auc- 
tion. It  is  a  task  which  saddens  and  amuses  me  at 
the  same  time.  I  linger  over  it,  perhaps  a  good  deal 
longer  than  I  ought  to  do ;  turning  the  leaves  of  all 
those  works  which  have  become  so  familiar  to  my 
thought,  to  my  touch,  to  my  sight — even  out  of  all  ne- 
cessity and  reason.  But  it  is  a  farewell ;  and  it  has 
ever  been  in  the  nature  of  man  to  prolong  a  farewell. 

This  ponderous  volume  here,  which  has  served  me 
so  much  for  thirty  long  years,  how  can  I  leave  it  with- 
out according  to  it  every  kindness  that  a  faithful  ser- 
vant deserves?  And  this  one  again,  which  has  so 
often  consoled  me  by  its  wholesome  doctrines,  must 
I  not  bow  down  before  it  for  the  last  time,  as  to  a 
Master  ?  But  each  time  that  I  meet  with  a  volume 
which  ever  led  me  into  error,  which  ever  afflicted  me 
with  false  dates,  omissions,  lies,  and  other  plagues  of 
the  archaeologist,  I  say  to  it  with  bitter  joy :  "  Go ! 
impostor,  traitor,  false- witness !  flee  thou  far  away 
from  me  forever; — vade  retro!  all  absurdly  covered 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         275 

with  gold  as  thou  art !  and  I  pray  it  may  befall  thee — 
thanks  to  thy  usurped  reputation  and  thy  comely  mo- 
rocco attire — to  take  thy  place  in  the  cabinet  of  some 
banker-bibliomaniac,  whom  thou  wilt  never  be  able 
to  seduce  as  thou  hast  seduced  me,  because  he  will 
never  read  one  single  line  of  thee." 

I  laid  aside  some  books  I  must  always  keep — those 
books  which  were  given  to  me  as  souvenirs.  As  I 
placed  among  them  the  manuscript  of  the  "  Golden 
Legend,"  I  could  not  but  kiss  it  in  memory  of  Ma- 
dame Trepof,  who  remained  grateful  to  me  in  spite  of 
her  high  position  and  all  her  wealth,  and  who  became 
my  benefactress  merely  to  prove  to  me  that  she  felt 
I  had  once  done  her  a  kindness.  .  .  .  Thus  I  had  made 
a  reserve.  It  was  then  that,  for  the  first  time,  1  felt 
myself  inclined  to  commit  a  deliberate  crime.  All 
through  that  night  I  was  strongly  tempted ;  by  morn- 
ing the  temptation  had  become  irresistible.  Every- 
body else  in  the  house  was  still  asleep.  I  got  out  of 
bed  and  stole  softly  from  my  room. 

Ye  powers  of  darkness  !  ye  phantoms  of  the  night ! 
if  while  lingering  within  my  home  after  the  crowing 
of  the  cock,  you  saw  me  stealing  about  on  tiptoe  in 
the  City  of  Books,  you  certainly  never  cried  out,  as 
Madame  Trepof  did  at  Naples,  "  That  old  man  has  a 
good-natured  round  back  1"  I  entered  the  library ; 
Hannibal,  with  his  tail  perpendicularly  erected,  came  to 
rub  himself  against  my  legs  and  purr.  I  seized  a  vol- 
ume from  its  shelf,  some  venerable  Gothic  text  or 


276         THE  CHIME  OF  STLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

some  noble  poet  of  the  Renaissance — the  jewel,  the 
treasure  which  I  had  been  dreaming  about  all  night, 
I  seized  it  and  slipped  it  away  into  the  very  bottom 
of  the  closet  which  I  had  reserved  for  those  books  I 
intended  to  retain,  and  which  soon  became  full  almost 
to  bursting.  It  is  horrible  to  relate :  I  was  stealing 
the  dowry  of  Jeanne !  And  when  the  crime  had  been 
consummated  I  set  myself  again  sturdily  to  the  task 
of  cataloguing,  until  Jeanne  came  to  consult  me  in 
regard  to  something  about  a  dress  or  a  trousseau.  I 
could  not  possibly  understand  just  what  she  was  talk- 
ing about,  through  my  total  ignorance  of  the  current 
vocabulary  of  dressmaking  and  linen-drapery.  Ah ! 
if  a  bride  of  the  fourteenth  century  had  come  to  talk 
to  me  about  the  apparel  of  her  epoch,  then,  indeed,  I 
should  have  been  able  to  understand  her  language! 
But  Jeanne  does  not  belong  to  my  time,  and  I  have 
to  send  her  to  Madame  de  Gabry,  who  on  this  impor- 
tant occasion  will  take  the  place  of  her  mother. 

.  .  .  Night  has  come !  Leaning  from  the  window,  we 
gaze  at  the  vast  sombre  stretch  of  the  city  below  us, 
pierced  with  multitudinous  points  of  light.  Jeanne 
presses  her  hand  to  her  forehead  as  she  leans  upon 
the  window-bar,  and  seems  a  little  sad.  And  I  say 
to  myself  as  I  watch  her :  All  changes,  even  the  most 
longed  for,  have  their  melancholy ;  for  what  we  leave 
behind  us  is  a  part  of  ourselves :  we  must  die  in  one 
life  before  we  can  enter  into  another ! 

And  as  if  answering  my  thought,  the  young  girl 
murmurs  to  me, 


THE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD.        277 

"  My  guardian,  I  am  so  happy ;  and  still  I  feel  as  if 
I  wanted  to  cry !" 


THE  LAST  PAGE. 

August  81,  1869. 

PAGE  eighty-seventh.  .  .  .  Only  twenty  lines  more 
and  I  will  have  finished  my  book  about  insects  and 
flowers.  Page  eighty-seventh  and  last.  .  .  .  "  As  we 
have  already  seen,  the  visits  of  insects  are  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  plants  /  since  their  duty  is  to  carry  to 
the  pistils  the  pollen  of  the  stamens.  It  seems  also  that 
the  flower  itself  is  arranged  and  made  attractive  for  the 
purpose  of  inviting  this  nuptial  visit.  I  think  I  have 
been  able  to  show  that  the  nectary  of  the  plant  distils  a 
sugary  liquid  which  attracts  the  insect  and  obliges  it  to 
aid  unconsciously  in  the  work  of  direct  or  cross  fertili- 
zation. The  last  method  of  fertilization  is  the  more 
common.  I  have  shown  that  flowers  are  colored  and 
perfumed  so  as  to  attract  insects,  and  interiorly  so  con- 
structed as  to  offer  those  visitors  such  a  mode  of  access 
that  they  cannot  penetrate  into  the  corolla  without  de- 
positing upon  the  stigma  the  pollen  with  which  they 
have  been  covered.  My  most  venerated  master  Sprengel 
observes  in  regard  to  that  fine  down  which  lines  the  co- 
rolla of  the  wood-geranium :  '  The  wise  Author  of  Nat- 
ure has  never  created  a  single  useless  hair  /'  /  say  in 
my  turn :  If  that  Lily  of  the  Valley  whereof  the  Gos- 
pel makes  mention  is  more  richly  clad  than  King  Solr 


278        TEE  CRIME  OF  8TLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

omon  in  all  his  glory,  its  mantle  of  purple  is  a  wedding- 
garment,  and  that  rich  apparel  is  necessary  to  the 
perpetuation  of  the  species.* 

"  BROLLES,  August  21, 1869." 


Brolles !  My  house  is  the  last  one  you  pass  in  the 
single  street  of  the  village,  as  you  go  to  the  woods. 
It  is  a  gabled  house  with  a  slate  roof,  which  takes 
iridescent  tints  in  the  sun  like  a  pigeon's  breast.  The 
weather-vane  above  that  roof  has  won  more  consider- 
ation for  me  among  the  country  people  than  all  my 
works  upon  history  and  philology.  There  is  not  a 
single  child  who  does  not  know  Monsieur  Bonnard's 
weather-vane.  It  is  rusty,  and  squeaks  very  sharply 
in  the  wind.  Sometimes  it  refuses  to  do  any  work  at 
all— just  like  Therese,  who  now  allows  herself  to  be 

*  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bonnard  was  not  aware  that  several  very 
illustrious  naturalists  were  making  researches  at  the  same  time  as 
he  in  regard  to  the  relation  between  insects  and  plants.  He  was 
not  acquainted  with  the  labors  of  Darwin,  with  those  of  Dr.  Her- 
mann Miiller,  nor  with  the  observations  of  Sir  John  Lubbock.  It 
is  worthy  of  note  that  the  conclusions  of  Monsieur  Sylvestre  Bon- 
nard are  very  nearly  similar  to  those  reached  by  the  three  scien- 
tists above  mentioned.  Less  important,  but  perhaps  equally  in- 
teresting, is  the  fact  that  Sir  John  Lubbock  is,  like  Monsieur 
Bonnard,  an  archaeologist  who  began  to  devote  himself  only  late 
in  life  to  the  natural  sciences.— Note  ly  the  French  Editor. 


THE  CRIME  OF  STLVE8TRE  BONNARD.         279 

assisted  by  a  young  peasant  girl — though  she  grum- 
bles a  good  deal  about  it.  The  house  is  not  large,  but 
I  am  very  comfortable  in  it.  My  room  has  two  win- 
dows, and  gets  the  sun  in  the  morning.  The  chil- 
dren's room  is  up-stairs.  Jeanne  and  Henri  come 
twice  a  year  to  occupy  it. 

Little  Sylvestre's  cradle  used  to  be  in  it.  He  was 
a  very  pretty  child,  but  very  pale.  When  he  used  to 
play  on  the  grass,  his  mother  used  to  watch  him  very 
anxiously ;  and  every  little  while  she  would  stop  her 
sewing  in  order  to  take  him  upon  her  lap.  The  poor 
little  fellow  never  wanted  to  go  to  sleep.  He  used  to 
say  that  when  he  was  asleep  he  would  go  away,  very 
far  away,  to  some  place  where  it  was  all  dark,  and 
where  he  saw  things  that  made  him  afraid — things 
he  did  not  want  to  see  any  more. 

Then  his  mother  would  call  me,  and  I  would  sit 
down  beside  his  cradle.  He  would  take  one  of 
my  fingers  into  his  little  dry  warm  hand,  and  say 
to  me, 

"  Godfather,  you  must  tell  me  a  story." 

Then  I  would  tell  him  all  kinds  of  stories,  which 
he  would  listen  to  very  seriously.  They  all  interested 
him,  but  there  was  one  especially  which  filled  his 
little  soul  with  delight.  It  was  "The  Blue  Bird." 
Whenever  I  finished  that,  he  would  say  to  me,  "  Tell 
it  again !  tell  it  again !"  And  I  would  tell  it  again 
until  his  little  pale  blue-veined  head  sank  back  upon 
the  pillow  in  slumber. 


280        THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD. 

The  doctor  used  to  answer  all  our  questions  by 
saying, 

"There  is  nothing  extraordinary  the  matter  with 
him!" 

No !  There  was  nothing  extraordinary  the  matter 
with  little  Sylvestre.  One  evening  last  year  his  father 
called  me. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  the  little  one  is  still  worse." 

I  approached  the  cradle  over  which  the  mother  hung 
motionless,  as  if  tied  down  above  it  by  all  the  powers 
of  her  soul. 

Little  Sylvestre  turned  his  eyes  towards  me :  their 
pupils  had  already  rolled  up  beneath  his  eyelids,  and 
could  not  descend  again. 

"Godfather,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  to  tell  me  any 
more  stories." 

No,  I  was  not  to  tell  nim  any  more  stories ! 

Poor  Jeanne ! — poor  mother ! 

I  am  too  old  now  to  feel  very  deeply;  but  how 
strangely  painful  a  mystery  is  the  death  of  a  child ! 

To-day,  the  father  and  mother  have  come  to  pass 
six  weeks  under  the  old  man's  roof.  I  see  them  now 
returning  from  the  woods,  walking  arm  in  arm.  Jeanne 
is  closely  wrapped  in  her  black  shawl,  and  Henri  wears 
a  crape  about  his  straw  hat;  but  they  are  both  of 
them  radiant  with  youth,  and  they  smile  very  sweetly 
at  each  other.  They  smile  at  the  earth  which  bears 
them ;  they  smile  at  the  air  which  bathes  them ;  they 


THE  CRIME  OF  SYLVESTRE  BONNARD.         281 

smile  at  the  light  which  each  one  sees  in  the  eyes 
of  the  other.  From  my  window  I  wave  my  hand- 
kerchief at  them, — and  they  smile  at  my  old  age. 

Jeanne  comes  running  lightly  up  the  stairs;  she 
kisses  me,  and  then  whispers  in  my  ear  something 
which  I  divine  rather  than  hear.  And  I  make  answer 
to  her:  "May  God's  blessing  be  with  you,  Jeanne, 
and  with  your  husband,  and  with  your  children, 
and  with  your  children's  children  forever !"  .  .  .  Et 
nunc  dimittis  servum  tuiim,  Domine  /" 


THE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


66 


-IUM  2  3  1966 


Book  Slip-15m-8,'58(5890s4)4280 


UCLA-College  Library 

PQ2254C86E5h1890a 


L  005  690  229  9 


College 
Library 

PQ 
2254 
C86E5h 
1890a 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  L  BRARJ '  FACILIT 


lllllllll       II        !•' •        •"     "       "•    •  '      "' 

A     001  146484     9 


